One after another, the troops ruthlessly tore their way inside of me and swallowed me whole.
A piece of me chips away every time, and now I'm at the point where there's nothing left of me.
My shaky hands reach for the scattered pieces of paper laying around me, and I read one entry after another.
And now I undoubtedly find myself asking, "why is my body the sole thing of value to you?"
Why is it that you measure my worth based on my sex appeal?
You insisted on having sex that night. A "you up" text and drunken begging is clearly all I can get from you.
But you sobered up and didn't want me anymore. Which I naturally expected, of course.
Why would you want me? Why would anyone? I'm a chaotic mess, and I don't even love myself.
My hands reach for another crumbled page.
Relief: what I ultimately felt when I lost all control.
I used to be scared of that, though. "What if I do something stupid?" I would wonder uneasily.
But nothing was as stupid as falling for you.
You mascaraed as a man that I could rely on and trust.
I've become so damn colour-blind to all the red flags you directed my way.
But I guess I just didn't want to believe the boy with the soft-spoken voice would make his way inside my body and heart then rip me apart.
I reach for the most scribbled entry and tears fill my eyes as a haunting memory rushes back.
Hollow. I feel hollow.
I realize that as I wallow in self-pity but I can't seem to stop.
I've been feeling that way since you were on top. On top of me, that is.
Your icy blue eyes were piercing that dreadful night. I never thought I'd hate blue eyes so much.
And still, you message me and ask about my day as if nothing happened.
That foggy, drunken haze haunts me to this day.
And the worst part is what it inadvertently left me with.
My self-worth had already been lacking before you crashed into my life.
But now, I wearily glance into the mirror and shudder at what I see before me.
I've had guys masquerading as men my whole life.
They falsely promise honesty and loyalty but somehow that pledge gets lost along the way.
I collect the papers and hurl them into the illuminating fire.
And I ask myself for what feels like the millionth time, "Why am I merely seen as a sexual object?"
I'm not something to ruthlessly exploit. I am a human fucking being with hopes, dreams and feelings. So why do you unjustly treat me as less than?
Why do you feel the need to touch me like that? Make that comment? Take advantage of me?
Why does every fucking guy feel obligated to use me?
Why am I never enough to sincerely love?
You "compliment" my physique and act as if I should be grateful that you're sexually attracted to me.
What if I told you that that wasn't what I wanted?
What if I told you I want those cute, romantic dates and not some quickie in your car?
What if I told you I had only ever wanted to love and be loved in return?
What if I told you that I've been frantically searching for my soulmate but they always feel just out of arm's reach?
You probably wouldn't believe that, though. After all, sex objects don't want love.
