Fragments of a Girl
I am not your slut.
With Pepto Bismol-pink blood and hair made of sunshine.
I am not tantric.
I don't flex and bend and mold to your contours as if I were made to fill your empty spaces.
I will not pump you full of assurances while I slowly deflate.
I am not your princess.
This tiara is my Band-Aid and the light bounces off it's little man-made diamonds, deflecting your consumption of my soft Bambi heart.
I am not Daddy's Little Angel,
Just because some of the glitter on my skin has rubbed off on your puffed up chest.
I don't vamp for you.
Not even when my lip gloss is ripe strawberry red and smeared across my summer-brown cheeks with your watered down saliva on my bruised clavicle.
When you kiss my earlobe, I feel you sucking at my sense of self.
Drawing my autonomy out of me only to spit it on the pavement with your vodka gorged lips.
I was not made to drip little bits of myself into your veins like morphine.
Your power comes from possession.
You infect, and then thrive off the fever it gives me.
You press your cheek to my burning breast.
You rest your head against my sternum and tell me how soft I am.
You say that I smell good.
Your nails make cat scratches on my chubby tummy.
I am not yours.
I don't put mascara on so that you can watch my eyes get wet and drip black stains down my slackened jaw.
Release my immobile body.
Stop paralyzing the girl who used to nearly cry out with unrestrained happiness.
You steal my joy.
You suffocate my hope.
You drown my self-esteem in your creamy syrup.
Your love potion.
You absorb my will.
You run your sweaty fingertips over the scars on my thigh and you romanticize my vulnerability without ever asking why the scars are there.
You would bury my see-through body in a barbie pink casket after you sucked me dry.
You would put cornflower blue ribbons in my hair.
You would tell everyone what a very pretty girl I was.
Here lies my slut
She smelled of English roses
She could never say no to me
She was such a good girl
Rest in pieces.