The admission price to my personal hell is in my kiss.
Easy, right? Almost as easy as I am.
My eyes fog over, stuck in the whirlwind of memories I don’t want. Nightmares and fear hold me encased in the twisting and rushing of too many eyes and pointing fingers. And I know I should be scared, but all my survival instincts were thrown to the wolves and they won’t give them back.
Thrown. I say thrown. I fucking gift wrapped them. No take backs. Apparently.
Fire burns hot in my mouth with words left unsaid. He said I saved his life. All I remember is spreading my legs open and squeezing my eyes closed, memorizing the words the indie artist crooned to me as this wannabe man expertly searched for innocence I supposedly had. But I’ve never understood why people think it’s lost through sex. I lost it through my eyes, watching trauma without the shelter of a TV screen. Through my ears, with screams echoing in my ears and while the words were forgotten the shrillness of their voice wasn’t. Through my nose, assaulted with the smell of absinthe and pungent smoke so thick I felt lightheaded.
After watching the world come crumbling down from love wasted on those who wanted to deserve it more than they ever did, how could sex ever be anything other than physical? I’m not innocent. I’m not naive. I’m not your sweet, little, virginal girl come to save you from the emptiness you carved into your own chest. The solution to your misery is not found inside the walls of my body, but on the lipstick writing smeared across your bedroom walls. You’re just mad you were never able to take anything from me.
I have photo albums full of people who all wanted me to give everything that was never mine to begin with. Safety. Assurances. Respect. Loyalty. Truth. Love. What do those words even mean? Is there any wisdom in between the lines of platitudes I’ve been fed instead of the medicine that could have killed the roots of diseases planted in my mind back when I thought I knew what it was like to be on the other end of unconditional love? Where is that now that the fantastical smoke has been blown away by the reality I was forced to face?
I don’t want to pay those debts. I won’t. You say reparations are my responsibility, but I never saw the building you swear used to be here.
People leave your house with a stamp of guilt. Who cares if they deserve it? Audiences only know how to clap, but I hope they don’t adore you.
What’s it like to be the only person in the world who’s always right?
Because I know what it’s like to be only creature in the world who’s always wrong:
I want to bottle hatred. That’s how all these fucking people waltz through life without injury. But I’ve never been good at hating. Of all my bad qualities that’s my worst.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
And all of you will kill me for it.