I am a beautifully disgusting paradox. I am a bouquet of fresh farmer’s market irises and a gaping wound ripped open by the hands of men. I am fresh linen and old, hidden blood. I am pulsing and alive and silent. I want to scream but there are foreign hands in my mouth. I am trapped in my body.
I dated a boy in high school who was my first boyfriend, my first kiss, the first boy to hold my naked body for what he wanted it to be. But he wanted my body for what it couldn’t be. He pulled my sleeves over my cuts and ignored my blood. He loved my wit and humor but despised the chemicals swimming around in my brain causing me to hide in my bed, wet and shaking. He asked my body to eat the expensive food that he bought for it when my stomach had not felt weight in two days. He screamed at my mind for the workings of my body. He screamed at my body for the workings of my mind. But he loved my mind and he hated my body, and he hated my mind and he loved my body.