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Fleet & Skeet

(See: Cunt)

A small story from a chapter of my life. Her name was ________.

The first girl I ever loved was what you would call a "fleet & skeet." "Fleet & skeet" definition: The term one uses to describe a lesbian who is older and gets younger lesbians to fall in love with them, only to leave soon after (see: cunt). See, I've told this story many times, but never have I told the whole story before. One person does know the second half of the story, (my fifth therapist), but I have yet to let her know the full truth. September 16, 2016. I was 11, to turn 12 in February. 7th grade. Warm, the sun wrapped around you as if it were your earth made blanket, slowly leaving a mark of bright red cherry plum shriveled up skin on your shoulders and cheeks. Mama let me walk down to the skate park with my bestest friends, together forever no matter what. We counted our crunched up $1 bills and coins from our pretty in pink coin purses. 

I knew something was up, being so interested in girls. I knew it wasn't normal, yet I chose to ignore it. Then she walked in. At first, it was just a flash of golden blond hair, then another. Eventually, I turned around. At a full 5 foot 6 inches, I was gone. The inclination to stop breathing sat lodged in my gut. Such beauty is something I never thought existed. I decided then "this pain I welcome with open arms... the great agony of loving her too much!" 5 feet 10 inches tall, long legs of chocolate mixed with gold. How dare I look at her; how dare I admire her hips covered by a black and white checkered skirt; how dare I dream of her arms around mine; how dare I love her with all my might. 

Her hair was dyed blonde, straightened and falling all the way to the bottom of her back, nails chewed all the way down, at least 20 bracelets on each wrist. Dark, deep brown eyes that you could easily mistake for candy. Skin of silk and lips of satin, she immediately held a silver chained leash over my heart; but little did I know, that would soon come to be my worst pain. 

I stood for a solid 7 minutes and 32 seconds as I watched her decide on her candy, then stuff it in her shirt and skip out the door. I scrambled to follow her, watching her cross the green grass, pick up a skateboard, and dance to the song she was humming in her head. Let's call this girl Emma, for now. Emma was dancing when she noticed me. She noticed... me. I stared, my feet rooted to the spot as she walked up, sashayed her hips with that "fight me, Becky! I dare you!" look on her face. 

She grabbed the end of my skirt, pulled me toward her (see: big top energy) and said, "Hi." 

My heart in my ankles and lungs in my throat, I knew I was dead right then and there. I was—gone, lost in the wind on a rainy day, at the bottom of the deepest trench in the ocean, higher than the clouds all the way in space—dead.  

She was it, my demon and angel all in one body. We danced, we loved. My first experience with true amazement. Love is something impossible to describe to one who hasn't yet felt it. It feels like choking. You can't breathe when they aren't around. Your fingers go numb, constantly reaching out, waiting to find their body to hold onto. You want to be better for them, be the best you could possibly be. 

The first time we had sex, I didn't like it. I felt too young. It was a maturity I decided was not for me at that moment. Yet she kept going, pulling my hair, saying: "You owe it to me, you love me. I'm the only one who understands you." I would go home and cry in the bath, not understanding why I wasn't wanting this. I loved her, I owed it to her, she was the only person who understood me. Weeks would go by. She wouldn't text or call, only for her to show up on my doorstep, demanding "love." 

How quickly can love change? How quickly can love turn to hatred? I suppose maybe it was Stockholm, in a softer sense. She trained me. I belonged to her, and I loved her for it. My god, did I love her. My god, did I hate her. I harmed myself, and I allowed her to harm me as well. 

Soon enough, she grew bored of the tears and millions of texts. The calls and lost thoughts. It wasn't enough for her. 

I never understood what had happened to me that year, what truly went on until a small sexual violence seminar that I happened to attend. Sometimes I truly wish I never knew. Sometimes I wish it was all a bad dream, and that I never learned what love is. 

Choking on needles, kinky little bitches running with scissors, my stomach spilling over my tights while her extra small panties keep slipping off, stealing wine from the back of the cupboards and sipping it from sippy cups, not wanting to wake up, the underbelly of the beast is exposed. We are tucked away to stay in the corners of our minds no one knows. How long have we been lost? Crows screeching in our ears. The danger is coming all day every day, we know. Shitty little stick and pokes with sewing needles, smiley faces on our ass cheeks and bumble bees on our ankles. Candy wrapped in sweet little bows is my love for you.

I choose to not give up her name, to not discuss her fate. Do not hate nor love me for my strength, or lack thereof. Someday I shall speak that name, not now. 

I have learned that my life is made up of chapters, pages, paragraphs, sentences, words, letters... With each new chapter comes a new love and view of life. I shall continue to grow, continue to learn what love really is. For now, a secret is a secret one may choose to share with the world (see: gut-wrenching truth).

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