One day you'll grow up
And your eyes will stop reflecting galaxies
And start reflecting the weather.

you robbed me,
at the tender age
of non-consent and
bony knees from
something i will
never win back

and i'm not
talking about
virginity anymore

Consent is ****. Reality is not.

He picked me up from the Taco Bell, hot summer
day. Played music in the car, but denied me air. “It wastes gas.”
The man I gave my virginity to made me sweat it out on the way to do so.

His pasty torso was covered in unfinished tattoos,
a lifetime reminder of unfinished business. “Would you
like to see my rabbit?” he asked, and I thought that
rabbit was a euphemism for ***** but it wasn’t. He pulled
out a literal white rabbit, and placed it in my hands. The
soft fur burned with a sense of impending doom; of
the contract I’d foolishly signed in my mind. “His name is lucky.”

But I wasn’t. He ****** me hard against his
bed frame while I stared up at a reproduction of a Wicked
poster his fiancé had painted, but not before singing me
an original song- to make you cringe a little harder- off key.
I didn’t know how to give a *******, so I let him split me
in half.  And then I suited up in my crisp white shirt, slipped
on my black bow tie, and served people popcorn for seven hours.

I wrote this for you because there were times I wish someone had written this for me-

Stop hating your reflection, stop hating the girl that is in your mirror. She is you, and you must love your fingertips to your eyelashes, your toes to your stomach all the way down to the edges of your soul and the depths of your heart.

Stop letting him be your world. Have you ever looked at a map? Have you even seen where the rivers go? Have you ever realized that you can get in the car and go? Don't tell me no, because it's true. Instead of following the rivers you let him create them and they flow down your face. Stop swimming in your tears, don't drown in his consuming love. Swim far away and resurface. Breathe in and out. Get out of the water and dry your tear soaked face off, and don't swim until you're ready again.

Stop letting your insecurities shape your mind. They're like needles injected into your body, leaving injuries and drops of blood while extracting your strength to put those thoughts to sleep. You have to learn to form your pretty little fingers into fists and start fighting off those nagging voices in your head that say you aren't good enough. Throw a punch, take a hit, get back up, wipe the sweat off your forehead and do it again. Battle until you come out bruised but on top, exhausted but a winner.

Stop letting him be your measure of worth. His attention and love will never, in your lifetime, fill the void where your own self love should be. He, nor any one guy, will ever fill your heart the way your own self love could. I promise you that loving yourself is so much more rewarding than someone else loving you. I promise I promise I promise.

Stop making excuses. Are you really happy or is that what you project? Is your smile real? Does he make you genuinely smile anymore? Are you falling asleep in his arms feeling alone? Are you?

Stop reading these words and start doing. I wrote this for you because I know he never would.

Hands where
They are not welcome
Against flesh too young
And too willing to please
Pushing to break the last barrier
That separates
Innocence
From exploitation
Lips parting what should be closed
Taking what is not theirs
And can never be given back
A body demands
As the other yields
Bending to its will
And calling it "love"

I was eleven, the first time I saw you.
I thought you were sweaty, and that your hair was too long.
I had just skipped two straight months of school,
they had told you about me and I hated that.

I was twelve, the first time I met you.
I remember my classmates were uninspired
and equally uninspiring.
I wrote things for you, I wanted you to know that
I wasn't like them.
I not only thought things through, I couldn't stop.
I wrote to keep from going crazy.

You showed me your plays,
your poetry,
your short stories.
You showed me college english textbooks
full of various prose,
each one flavored slightly differently.

You showed me The Giver,
and Dead Poet's Society.
I wondered if you really fancied yourself
the captain,
leading your charges into vast fields of knowledge,
and what's more,
appreciation for the knowledge.

You were the teacher that made kids
want to teach.
You looked after me.
Made sure I was fed.
Signed me up for extra credit,
even when I said no.
You showed me what it was like
to have someone's support.
You showed me love.

When I went to high school
we stopped talking,
except for the occasional email.
But I had a boyfriend
And I smoked ***
And I didn't want
to let you down.

When I graduated, I sent you an email.
Explained everything.
I begged to see you,
to talk about all that happened.
You never replied.

You died the week before I received my diploma.
Since then,
I've been going off of soundbite bits of advice
you once gave me,
trying always to remind myself that I can do this,
because
you showed me.