Rose.

Rose.

That isn't my name. But it's what I want to go by. All names are to be hidden. All events must contain somewhat of a lie. The content may be a bit shifty, but my story is true.

Alright.

February

I wake up next to you, day dreaming about us. You played Blue is the Warmest color that night. I could still smell the female axe radiating off your body. I always enjoyed that pungent smell on my female clients. I breathe you in deeply. You don't understand. No, why can't I have her. She's fucking beautiful. Messed up a bit from hurt. No, I refuse to believe that I get you for free...

"You are so cute." Your words always sound the same in my head. As if everything you say is a recollection of the phrase you said before. I am bored. I want excitement. I crave the heat. Rolling over I extend my leg over your abdomen and pull. I don't feel her.

"You have to be quiet. My mother is in the next room. She can't hear this." Am I scared of her or you? Honestly both. As much as I would want to deal with the dangers that lie within the coming out closet, I rather go by unnoticed. I am not troubled by the silence between us. She is a mere causality in this meaningless circle we call family. Mostly, I fear you. You came into my space. My room. The place where I sleep and you made it a movie set of tears and frustration. Yes, I shed no tears that night, but you laid on my breast and fumbled around with my innocence in your left hand, that dangle mercilessly from my chest every other night, and promised. Promises are pointless Rose. Remember that.

May

Goodbye was getting close. I somehow coped with my depression with adding pain to myself, so when you left, the agony wasn't as hurtful. I needed to focus on me. Something I have yet to master. Lately I've been thinking about my life. Why the one's I love always choose to stay and ruin me. For instance, with my mother. I don't like her. Me and her don't ever seem to eye our eye on similar pages. I know for a fact that she can't even tell me what my favorite food is. Yet, she is me. Better yet, I am becoming her. 

The day after.

"I am coming to pick you up at 4:00 pm. Make grandma help you pick out something nice." He said. It's always like my first date with him. I get ready in weird pink outfits and sit by the window, glancing down from the fourth floor in agony. When grandma? Is he coming now? Did he call? I felt ecstatic during those times.

6:00pm

He would call in increments so I know when to jolt down the stairs. Not yet.

7:36pm

My grandmother would open the door and I would run to him. Shy, but ready for the day. This was my best feeling in the world at one point. Being able to leave with my father. To get far away from this cage. I always wanted to be free, I just never knew how to express it, and for that I thank my father for helping my eight-year-old self-understand what freedom is.

But now it isn't like this.

Now I walk behind you and notice the weird smell on your sweater and I don't like it. I don't like eating desert to ease my pain. I don't want to be a lawyer. I don't want anything but happiness and I can't seem to find that, so quite frankly, I don't want anything.

Fall

I have anxiety now. Well I always had it. Mentally everything is always running a marathon. I told the therapist about my head and the pain. The decisions I have made to put myself in this position of madness. The, where did you black out again last night Rose?

I can't fucking remember, I just don't want to feel anything.

I want to be gone.

"...it's a way of protecting yourself..."