ayhuaska

I was seven the first time someone had seen of my body only what I had seen. I was half asleep but nodding awake as he carried me from the bed where his wife had cuddled me. And to the couch where the only thing that could get me through was to watch the shadows cast by the ceiling fan spin and begging it to fall on me. I bang my head against the wall for not saying anything. But i was seven and did not fully understand what was happening, only that it was wrong and I felt sick and sure that my whole life had changed without any warning. Without even asking me

I was nine before I told anyone because I was ashamed of where my body had been as if I had any choice in the matter. I hated my own skin, wishing I could scrub it off. I had no choice being involved in that man's sin. But I fell victim. And all the same when it happened with my high school boyfriend. I spoke up, then gave in. Stifled sobs as i focused on the television. And I never told because I knew better this time. It wouldn't do anything. I learned to lay back and take it. And at the least if im not interested, just go with it. I cant be protected. And it feels as if now I'm a target. As I grow into my own skin, on my fifteenth birthday, my mother's husband slides his hand down my side, follows curves puberty "blesses" me. I feel uncomfortable, of course knowing now what it means. Fleeing to my mother who doesnt say anything. Some more marriage problems shes tired of handling. Most days I feel so insecure, this doesn't even make sense.

And today, I base my own self worth off of something I hate. Wanting sex more than love. And hating the difference when I get ahead of myself. I fell in love with someone and I fucked it up because I'm fucked up.