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Your morbid laughter resonated around my dark, nearly empty room. She cackled disgustingly as your arm surrounded her.
“I lied to you... you fell for it... why would I... ever… want a little virgin anyway?”
Between cruel words and uncontrollable laughter lay my feelings. The feelings you disregarded. The little screen on my phone shivered along with my hands. Holding back tears, I swallowed thousand-pound saliva that had once been in your mouth. How the hell could you live with yourself? I was fifteen years old and knew too much about pain.
You had a girlfriend. You pushed me onto you and ran your hands on my nervous body. Where was she? Did she know? It was only once. You kissed me and I tried to escape. I felt filthy with those dry lips biting mine. No use pulling away, you were stronger than me. But you were a weak boy who put your lips where they were not welcome. It was only once. But you had a girlfriend whom you fooled into loving you. And now you had me unable to look at your face again.
You kissed me, remember? You made me feel good, remember that? You used me, I never used you. They stared at me with those eyes they used on pathetic girls. Girls who believed high school boys and their lies. I wasn’t easy, but that’s what everybody thought. You told them that I was an “easy” girl. That I was not “girlfriend material.” How could you possibly know that? You knew me for a week and only the surface I let you see. Maybe you weren’t boyfriend material.
I remember the first night we held hands. I remember how you did the same with her. But you chose her. The better option. The friendly, outgoing one. The one without baggage and pain. But did you know no baggage and pain from before was worse than the one you caused me? Tears did not leave my eyelids for months and my gut felt the heaviest it ever had. The way you looked at her as you once looked at me made me shiver, even though it was the warm months of spring. It felt as though the darkness of December carried on within me. I’d been second to you. Below her in a way I didn’t understand. And second was not the same.
You just stopped responding. The summer days had warmed the earth, my heart warmed up to you. Laughter was the center of us. You made me laugh as if I hadn’t before and made me feel like the prettiest woman in the world. You bought me flowers once and you knew I loved flowers. You told me I was your girl. But then you stopped. I held onto your university hoodie as I slept and forgot you. I remembered the last text: See you tomorrow, beautiful. I was not beautiful, though, just stupid to believe you and your boyish lies. How many times did I need to hear those lies before they were finally true?
“You’re too young.”
If I was too young, why did you touch me? If I was too young, why did you slam your lips onto mine shamelessly for hours, eliminating any inch of space between us? If I was too young, why did you hold me and whisper romantic shit into my ears? I wasn’t too young to love you, just too young for you to love back. I wasn’t too young to make excuses or create lies from within my sleeve, that was all you. My curvy, pale, disappointing body made you cringe. It made you find imperfections and find a way to turn ghost.
I heard what you’d done to other girls before. I knew your patterns and mannerisms from the girls I thought would protect me. But that night, I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even speak. I lay in your bed hours after meeting you, didn’t even know your last name. You could have done it. You even asked. I tried to sleep, shivering in fear as your hands caressed me wrongly. Why didn’t you do it? You could have. You only touched me, so I should not complain. Every touch felt filthier than the last. But then you stopped. And I didn’t even get to sleep.
A year, three months and twenty-five days later, I left you. You were the first one I’d ever left, and I felt a pinch of guilt for days afterwards. I remembered the times you yelled and screamed, got angry over nothing that would matter in a day, disregarded the tears I shed in front of you, made me beg for you to see me. The pain in my eyes never resonated into yours, it simply bounced right back to stab my teary pupils. Those were the moments I couldn’t shake away. I loved you. You know I did. But you only wanted someone to hold and hang on to and take places and show off. You did not want me. And I needed to be wanted even if not by you.
I shouldn't have given a fuck about you. You were too fucking old to be playing my games with me. You should've just left me alone. I didn't need temptation surrounding me until I caved. I didn't need to waste time on someone who only gave a shit about how things affected him. I shouldn't have told you about my life or the shit I dealt with. You treated me like trash but masked it by using sweet names you knew I would like. Maybe manipulating me made you feel wanted. Like you actually had somebody wrapped around your finger. But it hurt when you said those words to me, because you were old enough to know it would hurt me.