When I was in 7th grade I always thought it would just be a matter of time when I got them. I planned out different designs. Different quotes. When I got older, it was a matter of money.
The tattoo of the snake you got on your rib cage took 8 months to heal and I was a bandaid you found between your bed sheets.
I don’t have any tattoos because my scars tell more stories than a container of black India ink.
Each slit composed into a sentence of sweet somethings compiled into a intro paragraph, thesis statement in MLA format.
“You’re not a victim, you’re a survivor”
I hear in every video bringing attention to sexual assault. I repeat in my head over and over.
My 7th grade English teacher said that I’m not alone, I didn’t have to be alone.
Because black clothes washed in tide and teenage angst couldn’t give her a clear appropriate response.
But how long do I have to keep surviving until I start living?
I refuse to be the first aid kit you keep in the trunk of your car.
I refuse to wear her clothes that don’t fit me, when you render me blind that I can’t tell the difference between scars and stretch marks.
I refuse to give you every empty shattered coliseum with a never ending 8.3 magnitude earthquake in my pale white chest.
I refuse to sell tickets to my coliseums paid in a currency of ‘I love you’’s and you ‘you make me so happy’’s.
I refuse to stand at my sidewalk waiting for cars coming down my street doing 70 in a 45, teasing me every time I hear the gears shift. Giving me more foreplay than he ever did.
How long do I have to keep surviving?