At the hands of men, I learned the lessons of life.

I first learned fear with your towering figure, explosive temper, shaking hands, and abrasive voice. The older I got, the more the words cut me, a double blow of volume and weight. The tremors of my body visible for all to see, they angered you, but I could see nothing through my blurred eyes. My head spun as my lungs forgot how to breathe and I lost myself in your anger.

Another taught me vulnerability. In the shadows of your room with your girlfriend next door, I was your puppet and you my master. You tarnished me, made me unclean. You stole from me my vulnerability, killed the me that breathed easy. At your hands, I lost myself.

And then I learned pain-at the hands of a different tutor, but at this point it’s all the same. I learned pain in the comfort of my room, cloaked in that fuzzy green blanket. I learned the kind of pain that tears through the heart and childishly demands attention at every given moment; an obnoxious nagging pain with its grating voice and quick jabs in the ribs. I learned the pain of regret, of indecision, of betrayal. Tears marked the torment of my mind, songs didn’t hit me the same. My heart was an open wound at the mercy of the elements around. I sought healing and peace, wound stitched closed, but such things leave scars. I still remember that lesson well, in your warmth and in your piercing blue eyes, I learned pain of the truest kind.

At the hands of men, I learned the lessons of life. But in my hands, that life blooms.