When I was fourteen years old,
I was dating a young man of sixteen who
was six feet and two inches tall and
made me feel like I was gold -
the type of gold that sits in vaults
for years, still trying to glisten,
knowing it can be polished,
but left to gather dust and
lose value.
I was fourteen years old and
still trying to figure out what the
world wanted to do with me while
he was whispering what he would
like to do to me and saying that
if I really loved him,
I would.
I was fourteen years old when
I started to dig a graveyard in myself,
burying my worries and fears of what
was happening because I was certain
this was a part of growing up.
I was barely even a teenager the
first time I had sex because I had
told him I wanted to wait until
I was married and his words resounded,
“You’re going to end up with
somebody like me anyway,
so why put it off?” as his hand wrapped
around my ring finger like a vice.
I was fourteen years old when
I tried to run away for the first time
but the monster had broken
my hymen and crawled up to
live in my heart.
And I was fourteen years old
the first time a man slapped me
across the face because I told
him I didn’t want to have sex
and he told me to get over it because
it was just “a joke” when
all I knew was that the
punchline had been
his hand against my cheek.
I was fourteen years old,
and three years later,
I still flinch.
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