"do you really love me?"
i asked him as he undressed himself. something i hadn't been accustomed to in a long time. thinking i had broken the cycle as nothing more than a quick fuck, just as i'd been since i was 13.
and yet here i am at 15, being pushed down by the same boy who encouraged the destruction of my purity and acceptance of my body.
if you push me down and pass me around will you finally love me? will you care for me?
if i make you feel good will you stay?
is this all i'm worth?
i wanted nothing more but to matter to someone, and you reassured me that you loved me.
so why did i hear you whispering the same things to her? am i not special? and i as unlovable as you said i was?
am i not good enough? and i not worthy of love? is this the only way you will love me?
and yet when i ask you if it was true, you'll say i wanted it. i was begging for the attention.
my soft whispers of wanting to be cared for being long forgotten as i shake my head.
i'll cry and beg you to care for me, but you'll always want to look at what's underneath my clothes and wander my skin.
the feelings of disgust and self hatred bubbling up in my insides, my nails clawing at my skin in an attempt to wash off the filth that i feel.
but try as i must, i'll never be anything more than this.
