At the verge of losing control, a dagger, enters my chest, sent from his eyes, filled with indifference, one tear, no feelings, poison gushing from his lips—
I begin to walk away, covering the red and purple of my cheeks, to try to retrace my steps, to take it back, to shrivel back into myself, hide where I can never be found. I didn’t mean it.
But I did. But I shouldn’t.
Hiding is deceitful. A game you play to try to forget, but you only remember. You long to be noticed, soothed. But force is all you are given. You open up your emotions, and they look the other way. Afraid of my darkness.
Where will I go? I’m stuck. No destination, no escape.
He’s unaware they say. He’s just a white boy another says.
What does that make me?
I hold everything back. I could rage, I could fight. But I’m only a woman.
Who am I? Who gave him the warrant? No one.
So I write, tears touching the delicate pages, as my hand speaks the words of my bleeding red heart, earnestly executing the only thing I am capable. In protest of my identity, in defense of my body.
Will you read it? Will you hear me?
Of course not, he is just a white boy.
There he stands with his gentle smile with fists in his pockets, looking at the ground. The veins on his arms bulging, seeming to risk breaking through his skin. Like me, he was holding on desperately, desperately holding nothing.
How I survived the tension, splitting us in two, as he stood there, innocent as a child, is beyond me.
All I wanted was to leave. All I wanted was to stay.
I’m sorry was all I ever wanted, but if I got what I wanted, I would have him.
Did I do something wrong? Where did I go wrong? Don’t you love me? Am I not good enough? What is wrong with me?
Stop beating yourself up they say. You’re being a girl another says. You are beautiful just the way you are.
Pain is the only tangible feeling I have left, to hold onto. At least the pain fills the void of my aching wounds so I don’t feel so lonely. At least my tears signal life inside of my petrified exterior. Afraid of being taken advantage of.
What is next?
Friends, he says. I want you in my life he says.
Of course. Ignoring, glaring, hitting—all signals of love towards another.
You never wanted me.
But I still want you.
But friends is agony. Friends is indulging my deepest insecurities and tempting my stubborn feelings.
Yet. I agree, too guilty, too scared of isolation to say no. Too scared of losing him.
I messed up. I need to fix it.
Was I too pushy? Did I not care enough? Was I boring? Was I overbearing? Am I not pretty enough for you?
Thoughts over and over and over.
I am more than what he pins me as. I am more than the scars that he put there. I am more than just his shadow.
I will stand in the light. I will fight, every waking moment. I am not my body. You don’t deserve me. I am beautiful.
I am me.