His hands wrapped around my white thighs and my face grew paler than the moonlight. I was scared.
I tried to press the word “no” through my cement lips but the only thing I could manage was a heartbroken sigh.
I’m sorry I mistook that for a breath of excitement, Halli. You know I’d never do that if you didn’t want it.
But you did. You gave me what I dreaded, things I never wanted to see, think, hear. I never want to see your face again. The sweat dripped off of your forehead and marked signs on my chest.
Purpled stars shot across my arms when I tried to shove you off and red blood spots splattered your passenger seat when I tried to speak up.
I didn’t mean to hit you, I’ve never hit a girl before.
But you did. You did hit me. And you grabbed my neck in an attempt to give yourself a release of pleasure and AND I JUST WANTED YOU TO STOP but you didn’t stop. You kept going even after my attempts. I let myself wither away into the cheap leather of your new car and I pretended to not be there.
When you drove me home I had to retie my shoes and button up my blouse. I slipped in through my window at three in the morning and laid in my sheets until seven in the morning. There was blood on my shirt. I tucked it under my bed. I burned it later that week because I was too afraid to wear it again.
I couldn’t remember many things and my emotion was drained from my fingertips and I hated myself because if I had yelled louder or fought harder maybe you wouldn’t have done it and maybe I wouldn’t have to burn one of my favourite shirts and maybe I wouldn’t have to hate myself more than I already do.
But you did do it. You marked me with something I tried so hard to get rid of and you burned memories into the front of my eyes and everyone can see my ghastly expression but no one dares to ask because I am the girl with problems.
I told someone. She confirmed my theory.
If you hadn’t have gotten in the car with him this wouldn’t have happened. You knew this was going to happen, you were getting in the car with an 18 year old high schooler at midnight. This is just as much or even more your fault.
But I already knew that.
So I decided to hang my head and tie a shoelace around my throat and tell the world that it was my fault and nobody else’s. Because all I am to the world is a weak girl with bones that shatter and a heart that doesn’t beat.
And, he helped break me even more. Maybe he’s the reason I love to hurt people. Maybe he’s the reason I scream at people who cry or turn my emotions off or want to scream until my lungs give out or why I can’t stop staring at my reflection and asking myself “Why did you let this happen?”
He helped break me even more. Maybe he’s the reason I love to hurt people. Maybe he’s the reason I scream at people who cry or turn my emotions off or hate the girl that looks back in the mirror or can’t remember how to cry.
So, dear C, fuck you for breaking me when I was finally learning how to love myself. How to stop flinching when anybody reached to brush my cheek. I was smiling and when your fist connected with my jaw, blood was not the only thing to leave my body. It was my ability to be the girl who could be okay. You stole so much from me. And the worst part of it all is that you don’t even care. I played long with it. I wanted it.
About the Creator
Halli Booth
i’m a poet trying to make a name of herself.
i’m 18, but i think i’ve been alive longer than that.
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