My first kiss was when I was three years old, it was completely absurd. I didn’t even like the boy but I kissed him. Can’t even remember why.
Then I have a vague memory, like a cloudy dream. I was five, and he wanted to play mom and dad behind the closet door–– his mouth opening and closing on my cheek. And I waited for him to stop.
When I changed schools, I liked three different boys at the same time. It was fun, but I never tried anything further than enjoying the butterflies.
Then I turned eleven and understood what I’d suspected from too young— once you hit adolescence the same pattern repeats, only more violent more deceitful more mean.
By thirteen, had my only boyfriend and didn’t even like him that much. It was simply fun.
Even the other guy, the “friendship” that we hid, only for us to see— could touch my lips, my hips, my thighs rub his hands under the t-shirt and bite my neck with all his might.
But my heart didn’t move an inch, it remained beneath my ribs the entire time.
I never cared about been liked by men, about wanting to be theirs (maybe that’s why I never quite believed their foul mouths about them wanting to be mine).
But my friends…they all took my insides out and played with them however they liked. Every single one of them could take my intestines, hang me like a filthy pig eat my beating heart and drink my blood in just three sips.
Over, and over, and over again.
I showed my neck to the next one, not even bothering about the scars I so ferociously neglected.
Drank her venom right as she poured it out (over, and over, and over again) to show her that she could use me as many times as she could count.
Last time, I even bled myself out so they wouldn’t have to take the blame for remaining unbound.
I searched for love in places many didn’t even care. I understood it further than being someone else’s favorite flesh.
Now I'm only twenty seven, and still, everything ended in a bloodshed, in a sound.
