You say the pronoun that I hate the most
"She"
The blood drains from my face and suddenly my ribs are caving in, crushing my lungs. I can't breathe, and it's not because of my binder. A familiar ache begins to grow in my chest. I smile and form the finger guns I normally use to soften my anger.
"He" I say only half joking.
Your body goes rigid and you spit the word at me once again, "She!"
Every ounce of me wants to hate you for this. Wants to scream and shout, "NO! She isn't me. She has not been me for a long time. She is a hollow shell where a human once was, now abandoned. She is a word that brings pain to my heart. A word that shakes me to my very core, breaking my spirit piece by piece. I have to doge each and every she you throw at me in order to remain whole, but I am no longer whole.
Without a single apology you shrug. There's not a single crack in your spirit, whereas you have broken mine.
YOU ARE READING
Abstract Feelings
SonstigesWatch as I attempt to put my complex feelings into words. Contains poems, letters, and other random snip-it's of my mind's commentary.
