Mar 2014
When it happens his mouth is nothing like they’ve taught you to expect. Just more flesh slipping and sliding against yours. He grabs you as though all you are is just another thing he wants to conquer, he wants to take control of, and then he wants to forget. He grabs your ******* pretending it was a mistake but doesn’t let go. And before you’ve realised it happened, it’s over.
He leaves you to get dressed alone.
He drives you home and you press your body against the car door, never looking at him because you’re too ashamed. When you arrive outside your house and he leans in to kiss you. You close your eyes and try remember your grandmothers cooking or the smell of the spray your overbearing mother uses to clean the house - anything that doesn’t make you want to throw up.
You walk into your room and the mirror with butterflies and fairies on the frame mock you because you can’t even look at your own reflection.
You hold hands, pretend to watch a movie, fake a laugh at all the appropriate moments. He kisses you again, following some internal rhythm that you are uncomfortable dancing to. It feels as though you are a character in a play, every action you repeat has been rehearsed over and over again. This is nothing like they have taught you to expect. You were told that love was supposed to be easy. Pretending has become second nature to you. Your stomach turns uncontrollably as you lean your head on his cold shoulder, the day is nearly over.
In the car he drives passed the park because it’s the fastest way to your house, even though you tell him every drive that you want to go passed the lake so you can look at the ducks you used to feed when you were little. Today you do not mind that he is taking you the faster way because you don’t know how much longer you can hold your breath for before you pass out. You watch the children screaming, and how you wish you could scream. Still not looking him in the eyes you kiss him goodbye, you can feel acid in the back of your throat.
At home you wonder if you can wash the memory of him away, because toothpaste only replaced the taste of him from your bleeding mouth.
This is nothing like they’ve taught you to expect. It takes you four more boys until you get it right. Until you meet the one that doesn’t look at you like you are something to eat. He presses his hand onto the small of your back and kisses your tears. He feels like petals, like those hazy summer days when the sun is as hot as the desert sky.
He leaves you to get dressed alone.
He drives you home and you press your body against the car door, never looking at him because you’re too ashamed. When you arrive outside your house and he leans in to kiss you. You close your eyes and try remember your grandmothers cooking or the smell of the spray your overbearing mother uses to clean the house - anything that doesn’t make you want to throw up.
You walk into your room and the mirror with butterflies and fairies on the frame mock you because you can’t even look at your own reflection.
You hold hands, pretend to watch a movie, fake a laugh at all the appropriate moments. He kisses you again, following some internal rhythm that you are uncomfortable dancing to. It feels as though you are a character in a play, every action you repeat has been rehearsed over and over again. This is nothing like they have taught you to expect. You were told that love was supposed to be easy. Pretending has become second nature to you. Your stomach turns uncontrollably as you lean your head on his cold shoulder, the day is nearly over.
In the car he drives passed the park because it’s the fastest way to your house, even though you tell him every drive that you want to go passed the lake so you can look at the ducks you used to feed when you were little. Today you do not mind that he is taking you the faster way because you don’t know how much longer you can hold your breath for before you pass out. You watch the children screaming, and how you wish you could scream. Still not looking him in the eyes you kiss him goodbye, you can feel acid in the back of your throat.
At home you wonder if you can wash the memory of him away, because toothpaste only replaced the taste of him from your bleeding mouth.
This is nothing like they’ve taught you to expect. It takes you four more boys until you get it right. Until you meet the one that doesn’t look at you like you are something to eat. He presses his hand onto the small of your back and kisses your tears. He feels like petals, like those hazy summer days when the sun is as hot as the desert sky.
