By Jeré Powell
Junior year. Sixteen. Insecure, so unsure of myself. No one ever noticed me. I was the quiet girl. Would I ever have more than a crush? Math class. You sat in the next row, to my right. Questions about homework. Comments on MySpace. But I’m not the “pretty girl.” I don’t even wear make-up. Yet, we are messaging regularly, until you send THE message. I can’t stop smiling. Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend. I’ll do whatever you want to be seen as normal, desirable. As more than “other.” Now your calling my house phone. Am I hearing you right? You have…needs? You’re going to expect certain intimacy. Um .Okay. You’re seriously comparing your sex drive, to a cat in heat?! Why am I still on the line? Why haven’t I hung up? Are we all just prey? I give you these pieces of me, a little, bit by bit, hoping it will be enough. Enough to please, enough to keep you. You claim you love me, and shower me with gifts. With doubts about my fidelity. Threats to humiliate me publicly. Calling me BITCH when you don’t agree with me, and so many lies . Blame me because you fetishize me. And I’m now left with all these scars. Not just cuts on my wrists, but deep inside my heart. Won’t trust other guys. Won’t take them at their word. Always one foot out the door, ready to leave. Split myself into compartments, too afraid to let them see who I really am. You had me believing it was useless. Finally block you. Hard at the beginning, since you were my first addiction. Gain resolve and learn how to start loving myself. Passing more time and now I’ve learned how to love somebody else. I do. Sometimes in flashes, cause commitment was scary. Now in abundance, so much that it’s made me HOPE.