Dare I question a man's love for me when he doesn't even know me?
Like the women before me I too didn't give him enough, but what's a woman to do for a man who's heart has been broken, who's self esteem has been shattered, who's hands have never felt a touch that didn't feel cold, if not try to teach him how to love again?
I too have felt the empty feeling only a mother's hug could fill. What is happiness to a child if not a mother's smile? Who is the woman you're supposed to look up to if not a mother & what is hurt if not the absence of her presence?
"Every woman I've ever loved has hurt me", he said with a look of despair in his eyes, I felt like he read all of my notebooks and took those words off the pages, I felt like, he understood.
I love you, the words eco in the quiet room. My eager ears waiting to hear him say it back, my foolish mouth ready to puker up and steal a kiss, he doesn't say it. Like a child, I hide away emberessed, because I can't handle anything & he doesn't love me. How naive I was to dare question a mans love for me when I couldn't even prove to him that I love him, as if the words alone were enough, as if I didn't owe him the same shoulder to cry on, long embraces under a sky full of stars after screaming at the moon, blood sweat and tears and for fucks sake some god damn effort.
When I said, I hope he finds peices of me in every woman he meets after me, I didn't know I was setting myself up to see pieces of him in everyone else I came across.
Why are drugs more desirable than love when they both kill you slowly? Maybe, it's the lack of constant reminder of all your failures & for a minute your mind goes blank, you can't hear the ticking of the invisible clock in your head, telling you your time is up, when all you have is nothing but time on your hands.
I've had more sexual encounters than I can count on both hands, twice. When I tell people the exact number, they look at me in disbelief as if there's no way in hell there's that many pigs out there that would enjoy laying with you. What they don't know, is that I have their names written on my body in words only I know how to read, I have their stories carved into my skin as a constant reminder of the men that took the time to explore my body, rather than my mind. My pigheaded arrogance made me ignore the lessons learned from each of those men, but now I've pieced together poems for all of them.
His name alone holds 22 scars. His story is the longest, the hardest to move past, because the pages on my notebook are still being filled with new begginnings to an enviable end, but nothing in me wants this to fucking end & at the same time I finally understand that it is over.
I grew up on fear and the men before him could almost taste it, but that wasn't enough so they each took a bite out of me.
My rapists took my ability to see myself as more than an object, my first hook up took my idea of love and twisted it into a mind fucking fuck fest, feeding me false information like, if they want your body that means they like you, because look at your body, it's never been ungodly tempting, if they didn't like you they wouldn't be trying to ruin you. The boys who kicked me around before having their way with me took my ability to respect this body as my temple and instead made me realize all I'll ever be good for is a good fuck, because nobody truly gives a fuck about the fat girl who had nothing left besides her body to give.
The handsome man who first wrapped his hands around my neck and squeezed me so hard I felt like he was trying to kill me, taught me pretty boys don't have to ask, you should be greatful they're crossing your boundries.
When you think about it, it sounds a bit senseless to say, I hate my body then give everybody access to it like an under appreciated art gallery, with abstract, misunderstood art and judgemental peers. To let people use you like a pencil, missing the eraser that would give them the power to erase your imperfections and fix you. The irrational assumption they have bigger hearts and better intentions than the insecurities that you wear on your sleeve, when you're begging with your body like give me attention please. Were these men really theives or did I rob myself the first time I took the heart ache and made myself bleed?
There was just something about the illusion of feeling confident that made me feel competent. I forgot the scars until the other person brought them up, but still managed to bust a nut.
He was the only one I got naked for, naked with on every aspect, exposed myself to in everyway, cut myself open and showed him what I bleed, the only one who felt like home & not just a bed. He kissed the spot where his story would be layed out, ironic, huh? Perhaps I had something to do with the glass half full of spoiled milk going bad, but I don't think he wanted to love me anyway.
"I was abandon by my mother & basically haven't had another woman touch me since then" he said, to which I wanted to reply with a hug that would makeup for the time gap that he went without a women's arms, without his mothers love. I needed to touch him with my words, prove I love him with my actions so that I could make him feel safe like I do in his presence, but I think I also broke him.
My father's hands have touched me more than any other mans, his agressive blows still sting to this day, but it's no longer physical pain. His words ring through my head like an annoying song on the radio that plays on every station, so there is no switching the jams. I flinch everytime he raises his voice & cross my fingers his hands won't be next. It's been 5 years since he's hugged me. I'm afraid of men which is ironic because I spent most of my teenage years surrounding myself with dangerous men. I blame my father partially, with every blow, every threat, every time he laid his hands on me, I became submissive, not only to him, but to the next man that wanted to hurt me, his daughter.
There are 22 and counting reasons why we are different people, but there are a million reasons why I thought we were similar. He said he felt like he was trying to change me, the funny thing about that is, I wanted to change for him, I wanted to change with him, that's called fucking growing & if I had the chance to do it all over again, knowing it would end in such chouce I would spare him the trouble and make it right this time.
