Dec 2014
How confusing.
She liked the attention but never wanted it to go that far. When she innocently leaned against the door and smiled - he told her she knew that she drove men wild. When she sat near him, he told her her perfume was intoxicating; she didn't wear any. When they discussed politics, her eyes glazed over and he said she was "adorable." When they read Shakespeare, she cried. He laughed and caught her mouth with his. She didn't mind too much.
She danced in the air and spun around singing - her hair a windmill. She touched the flowers growing on the trees and turned and said: "Why don't people stop and smell the flowers more often? They really are so lovely." He spoke into his ear piece, nodded, and stepped on the loose petals that had fallen off. She watched him walk ahead of her - always a few paces - and thought he didn't see her at all.
Laying on her stomach on the floor, she read her novel, he read the paper at his desk. He lightly caressed the bottom of her foot, she squirmed to move away. He saw her body move and couldn't help himself. She sensed the difference in the air and became tense. She liked that he watched her and arched her back - her toes curled in. She hoped it would stay like this. Anticipation was better than end results.
She didn't mind when he touched her but asked him to stop when it did.
He never stopped.
She again said that it hurt but he didn't listen. It was almost like he moved into a different world inside of his head and what was real was only what played in his mind. She thought about the clothes he bought her; the pearls that she wore when they were alone; the shoes that were women's size 6 but looked like Mary Janes- a Catholic girl would wear with her uniform - she, no older than 13. It was a game at first, she got caught up.
His kisses were hurried and she split her lip on her teeth when he pressed hard. He inhaled the scent of her hair and pressed his index finger against her mouth. When his hands moved lower, she shuddered. She was confused by her feelings. He unbuttoned her jeans, and pushed inside her. His hands came up - blood. She told him that it hurt and he should stop. He simply looked at her - eyes glazed. She moved outside of herself.
He finished and kissed her head.
She sat on the hardwood floor in her purple t-shirt and pulled her legs against her chest. She stared at the scab on her right knee. She moved back into herself and her body felt heavy.
"I'm glad it was me."
She didn't reply. Simply turned away and stared unseeing at the white wall.
Some things are better left unsaid. Better left inside the recesses of the mind. The dark corners where memories are stuffed into boxes; taped, stapled, and tied into knots unbreakable.
But the feelings followed her. Other boys and girls came and went. So when they kissed, she wanted more. When he touched her, she felt nothing until it hurt. When he cared for her, she wanted his love. When they made love, she wanted to get ******. And after when she was alone, she cried for herself and everything she lost.
Ophelia is drowning.
She liked the attention but never wanted it to go that far. When she innocently leaned against the door and smiled - he told her she knew that she drove men wild. When she sat near him, he told her her perfume was intoxicating; she didn't wear any. When they discussed politics, her eyes glazed over and he said she was "adorable." When they read Shakespeare, she cried. He laughed and caught her mouth with his. She didn't mind too much.
She danced in the air and spun around singing - her hair a windmill. She touched the flowers growing on the trees and turned and said: "Why don't people stop and smell the flowers more often? They really are so lovely." He spoke into his ear piece, nodded, and stepped on the loose petals that had fallen off. She watched him walk ahead of her - always a few paces - and thought he didn't see her at all.
Laying on her stomach on the floor, she read her novel, he read the paper at his desk. He lightly caressed the bottom of her foot, she squirmed to move away. He saw her body move and couldn't help himself. She sensed the difference in the air and became tense. She liked that he watched her and arched her back - her toes curled in. She hoped it would stay like this. Anticipation was better than end results.
She didn't mind when he touched her but asked him to stop when it did.
He never stopped.
She again said that it hurt but he didn't listen. It was almost like he moved into a different world inside of his head and what was real was only what played in his mind. She thought about the clothes he bought her; the pearls that she wore when they were alone; the shoes that were women's size 6 but looked like Mary Janes- a Catholic girl would wear with her uniform - she, no older than 13. It was a game at first, she got caught up.
His kisses were hurried and she split her lip on her teeth when he pressed hard. He inhaled the scent of her hair and pressed his index finger against her mouth. When his hands moved lower, she shuddered. She was confused by her feelings. He unbuttoned her jeans, and pushed inside her. His hands came up - blood. She told him that it hurt and he should stop. He simply looked at her - eyes glazed. She moved outside of herself.
He finished and kissed her head.
She sat on the hardwood floor in her purple t-shirt and pulled her legs against her chest. She stared at the scab on her right knee. She moved back into herself and her body felt heavy.
"I'm glad it was me."
She didn't reply. Simply turned away and stared unseeing at the white wall.
Some things are better left unsaid. Better left inside the recesses of the mind. The dark corners where memories are stuffed into boxes; taped, stapled, and tied into knots unbreakable.
But the feelings followed her. Other boys and girls came and went. So when they kissed, she wanted more. When he touched her, she felt nothing until it hurt. When he cared for her, she wanted his love. When they made love, she wanted to get ******. And after when she was alone, she cried for herself and everything she lost.
Ophelia is drowning.
