If you take pride in another’s misfortune then what does that make you other than cruel.
If you take hope and twist it into something that feels more like pain then doesn’t that make you a thief.
You took something pure and innocent and you made it feel like sandpaper in someone else’s throat.
You turned the butterflies in my stomach into rattling door hinges.
You took the best parts of me and made them yours.
You made them something that I am afraid of.
Something I am insecure of.
You took the air out of my lungs and used it to keep your heart and blood pumping.
You took my smile and made it your comfort tool.
You took my hair and made it my leash.
Something to hold and drag me by as you order things of me that scare me more than spiders and the dark.
You stole my blood and made it yours to boil.
You took my hands, my arms, and legs, my mind, and heart
and turned them into pieces of a doll for you to position and move at your own will.
You took my body.
My soul,
but
You planted me a garden.
You built me a house.
You gave me a purpose.
When people asked why I stayed.
Why I didn’t say no or push you away.
It was because of the hours and hours of phone calls.
The numerous text messages and sweet notes that had rooted deep in my stomach.
It was because I never noticed that you were only growing weeds.
It was because I didn’t know that you had locked the door.
It was because I didn’t know anything else.
This is not love.
Or is it?
My first time wasn’t my choice.
I can’t change that so why try.
But now when people touch me.
When fingers run up and down my body.
All I feel are the door hinges rattling again in my stomach
All I want to do is crawl out of my own skin.
All I ever wanted to do was escape.
but here I am almost 3 years later,
Fifteen years old.
My boyfriend is afraid to touch me.
His fear is valid just like mine,
but when he kisses me.
It feels different.
I no longer mistake anxiety for butterflies,
because now I know the difference
He doesn't move his hand up my skirt while at the movies.
He holds my hand as I rest my head on his shoulders.
He doesn’t take my consent,
I give it to him freely.
He doesn't attach me to strings
just so he can pull them at his own behest,
and use me as his puppet.
He asks me if I am OK,
and I am,
but only because it’s him.
Because this is love,
and I may be young,
but I know that when he holds me.
When he kisses me.
When he asks my opinions,
and laughs at my jokes,
and thinks I am beautiful.
No matter what face I make or whether or not I wear makeup.
That I am
Safe.