M wanted to be with me. He wanted to be with me, and he wanted to be inside of me. But M was huge. His fingers hurt. His tongue hurt. I couldn’t imagine what other pains the rest of him was capable of inflicting upon me. I’d tried more than once to let him sleep in my bed, grappling me from behind like polished utensils. But we weren’t. We were rusty antiques in the drawer of a pawn shop somewhere far away. His facial scruff attacked my skin, created chaos and anger between my shoulder blades. And then there was the problem of his penis. It was mammoth, I knew it. I’d had yet to see it, but each time I let him spoon with me that thing rammed against the back of my thighs like a fucking dumptruck. He wasn’t trying to be sexual, but I still felt violated.

At one point he rolled onto his back and stared up at the mosquito netting. "God," he said, "I’ve never felt more like a rapist than when I’m with you."

It wasn’t my fault. I’d been ruined along the way, and male anatomy frightened me. It’s not to say that I didn’t have my time. There were many romps. Many late nights and early mornings. Always with the same person, and that may well have been where the original stigma lay. I’d been with that person for years, and only that one. But now HE was gone.

HE was gone, Erin was psycho, and M was told to sleep on the couch.

But M was nice. He could drink as much as me, and actively told me how "tough" how "hardcore" I was, not just for my ability, but my sheer love of straight liquor. It felt good to be built up as a strong girl. I’d been feeling inferior as of late. He knew that. He talked about it thoughtfully when the time was right, and kept his mouth shut when he knew I was in a bad place.

They say it gets easier with time.

They say every single day that passes gets a little bit easier.

They fucking lied.

It’s 11:15 am on a Wednesday. For breakfast I’m eating the leftover hard-frozen chocolate milkshake M bought for me in the middle of the night. He’s already crawled off the couch, and snuck out. He left a note. How kind. I woke to the sound of ice cracking, and saw that the Air Conditioning unit was frozen over. When I shut it off it began to crick and crack and crumble to the ground, leaving tears of slush mud grey along the white walls. It also destroyed a section of my dried flowers.

"I know, baby, I know how you feel." I said to the puddle on the carpet.

It turned the floor rust color. The color of dried blood.

I am reminded of Erins skin, of Erins sex. I am reminded of earlier that night, on a crowded dance floor when she shoved me against the wall. I can see welling bruises on my legs from the blunt kick of her Converse. Erin is a psycho. The water is unbearable, I’m going from white to pink to red to purple. I have a pair of sharp sharp scissors in the basket above the toilet. I cut my hair regularly. My skin is pink, and the cut blends in, unnoticeable until I extend my arm and the flesh gapes. Red rivulets of blood swirling in the water. It’s as pink as me. I mean no permanent harm, it’s just a way to push the pain off. Put it in another place.

I’m a ragdoll. I’ve the urge to stitch myself up. Heal this broken heart.

I broke my glasses on a dance floor. I met a boy I’d known in classes, and when New Order came over the speakers he squealed, "My favorite!" and we molested each others tongues for the duration. We held hands at our sides, and his hair, ever so much longer and messier than mine shrouded us both. Secret. Deep. Dark. Decadent little world. I was positively streaming with sweat. I could feel it racing its way from the tender spot behind my ears, down the slopes of my neck, puddling in my clavicle. The boy, he sang to me. "How does it feel, to treat me like you do?" I sang back, and at one point he threw my arm above his head, and spun me... as if I were a girl. As if my body were meant to do such graceful, lady like things. And surprisingly, it did.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Kiss This and Hang.