#do not recommend reading honestly esp if you don't have a strong stomach

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

tw: trauma, sexual assault

personal poetry in prose. do not recommend reading, honestly. will delete later!

the time has passed, you ran out of it. you will never be 17 again (thank god thank god thank god, i say as i mourn the fact i will never be 17 again). 

i would do anything to go back and rewrite the past, make her love me somehow, make them all care. i cared, i cared, i cared, and no one cared quite as much as i — now i’m broken and there are those who care more than i do. they spill their soul to me, and i watch them as cold indifference and pity overwhelm me. i say generic words to them, like they once said to me. they bleed and i watch. i know i cannot help. no one helped me, and i shattered like glass. i drag the glass to each new day and i stab myself on the shards. i brush my teeth and step on a broken piece. the broken piece is my own leg. i smile and i drink pear-flavoured beer and i say words of love i never quite mean, and i work, work, work so i don’t fall behind again (i’m so tired). the one thing i couldn’t stand is to be a nobody. i must make something of myself and then, maybe, the void will not be so vast and dark. 

i think about the smell of her scarf. i’ve never loved cigarettes more than when she smoked. i remember the little hairs on her neck and jaw and her little beauty marks. i was never happier then when i held her in my arms — in that moment in time, frozen forever for me to have, she is peacefully asleep on my shoulder as the bus drives on, and i feel at home. that day, she cried about a boy and i told her he wasn’t worthy of her — he wasn’t. i guess i wasn’t either.

i never had the ones i truly wanted — and i fully had the ones i didn’t truly want. i can have anybody, except the woman i call home. i am doomed to yearn. i remember her fingers on my back, and i wonder how it would feel if my first time was a loving one, instead of someone’s perverse hunger and the sinking feeling of realising i didn’t shave while prying hands touched me and i let out the saddest sounds i ever sang. there were a girl’s things in his room. i never judged her, i just wondered how she could bring herself to do it. i wore a mint green bra with white dots (it took me years to throw it away). before that, the very first time, i had a long, colorful skirt and a stomachache for weeks. i couldn’t eat. my mother told me calls from abroad are expensive. 

my mother wanted me to buy a prom dress, and i wanted to die. can i touch there, he asks? yes, i say, because why would you ask if you already did? i am on all fours on the bed and i breathe. i wonder if i’m imagining his hands because they don’t feel real. my dad asks if i’m on drugs after new year’s. i’m not, i’m just sinking, and the void is all-consuming. the years are muddled. she came to my place. she was pretty while she smoked. her hair was black as night, my very own morticia addams, like in the movies. except she was never quite mine. i was in sweden and she told me she missed me. when i returned, she barely looked at me. i told her about don giovanni. the waitress loved it. we went on a trip. the years are muddled. 

i freeze while everybody watches and he laughs. did you enjoy it that much, he asks and i have no words. he teases me when i put makeup on. when i ask an older girl if he’s the like that with her, she tells me i’m overreacting. i never mention it again. he’s my ticket away from the hell i’m in, and i don’t dare turn away. he talks to me about orgasms. i am silent. he is angry with me, and he tells me i am no longer a child, i am a woman (i’m 16, i’m 16, i’m 16 and i want to die). 

my ticket away from hell is gone. i find another one. he is better, but worse, because he’s always in my house. i didn’t ask for him. i didn’t want it. and then, after three years of him convincing me i want it, i don’t know anymore — i did show him the drawings. does it matter what i want? what does it mean to want? i have always wanted, and i never had what i so craved. i was the object of desire, but never allowed to desire — my desire is futile. what i desire, i eat and swallow and chew on, i don’t let it spill out of my treacherous mouth. she never knew i loved her. i swallow my love and desire whole and it sits in my stomach and it makes me ill. i throw up and i drink ginger tea that doesn’t help the constant nausea. i listen as he instructs me how to fuck myself.

i scream in my own personal hell. the sun lights chopin’s heroic polonaise, a triumphant cry of victory. i leave. i scream long after they’re all gone.

we never had those cheese fries and i never saw the brooklyn bridge. i feel robbed of my youth. i still crave, i still yearn.

i will never be 17 again.