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There are things I needed to believe.
It was the only way to survive.
I bartered a piece of myself with the promise that I would get through it.
Less whole, less me, but at least it wouldn’t hurt as much.

I wanted this. It’s what you told me when tears streamed down my burning cheeks after you kissed me.
It’s what I told myself when your hands traveled up the inside of my thigh in your classroom.
It’s what I held onto when you asked if I wanted to come inside your house.
I knew what I was doing.

You loved me.
I begged you to tell me that when you were pushing inside of me.
You echoed the words, but the remaining sliver of my sensible soul knew it was empty.
I just needed to hear it. It had to be a love story. Because if it wasn’t, then I was truly ruined.

They were nothing but pretty lies.
Death dressed in daisies.
Still, they were my life raft.
The only thing I could cling onto in the terrifying abysmal ocean I was drowning in.
No horizon in sight.

What if I want more than survival?
I want to shed the shame, the guilt, the lies, but it’s woven into every fabric of my being. It's who I am now.
I wish it was a love story, I just don’t believe that anymore.

Edited by Haze_D


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There are many types of force, and force is violence.  Words can be violent, and looks, and violence can be psychological, like when someone bigger, older, or in power forces something on someone smaller, younger, or powerless, and they have to find a way to deal with it in their mind so that it does destroy them.

Edited by CyclosaTurbinata
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