I feel awkward.
This word is clumsy on my tongue, yet it leaks through the gaps in my teeth, flowing over my lips like the lies that come so easily to me
I've been making up stories my whole life, until I have mastered the art of least resistance, until I can be the china doll human everyone wants to see me as
Flawless, untouchable, with a stare that can rattle your ribcage
But I still have a beating heart, mauling itself to meet her unattainable needs
She never hit me
With fists or words, the stereotypes of abuse that I am so used to hearing about, and god, I burn for the people that find reasons to stay
I don't know why.
I don't know that control can be this awful, sticky word, that bending over backwards for someone is as good as relenting to fists, crying in silence, slicing yourself open so that others can't
I don't know that this is valid; it doesn't feel like oppression, just normalcy, what I've always known to be true
I don't know that the holes in my stories do have a name
It is not defined as a label, a sticky piece of paper putting into five
letters the emotions my tongue cannot find a name for
In the beginning, she gave me life.
I can only hope I am brave enough to take it back.
Recently I learned...