She knows her nonchalance about the whole thing is infuriating.
She knows the thought of hands – groping, awful, dirty hands that are groping and awful and dirty simply because they aren't your hands – crawling their way over her delicate skin makes your own raise in angry disgust.
She feels disgusting, like some slimy beast unapologetically licked her insides with a mucus-covered appendage –
and she liked it.
The implied names ring in her ears like funeral bells, calling her out, a deacon's curse sending her soul to the fiery depths of hell, singing, "Repent! Repent!" as though she were a common criminal, or a witch, or a heathen untamed.
She cries for a ceasefire, suffering under the conflict in her head and heart, ideals against ideas.
None comes.
It never comes.
She doesn't feel her own shame, but a shame that she should have that just isn't there.
No criminal here; cease the trial, halt the capital punishment, she swears she's still innocent against all proof – and you'll blatantly lie and say she truly is.
The hands are still there though; just under the skin, crawling, crawling, crawling so that you can just barely see them spelling out the dreaded word
WHORE
and trust me, she knows you can see it.
She sees it too.
YOU ARE READING
She Just Wasn't
NouvellesI was never her, and she is not me, but still she's here, living my life. ~><~ I am trying to find myself. Sometimes that's not easy. ~ Marilyn Monroe
