I am not a fun person.
There used to be a certain degree of hilarity when I would walk into doors or fall down on uneven floors, but I don’t know how to make jokes.
I used to dish out one-liners because my looks sure weren’t grounds for friendship.
My chubby cheeks would spit out witty innocence.
I am not a fun person.
I remember the day when he stole my confidence;
when he left me naked and translucent.
Everyone could see right through me and there was nothing funny about the way that I cringed at the thought of holding conversations or jumped when people got too close.
Everyone could see right through me and not even my dark sunglasses could hide the black stained tears that dripped down off of my chin.
My mom asked me if I had been raped and she wasn’t the first one to ask,
but he put those words in my mouth, too.
I was laughter and I was creativity and I was joy and I was the life in my untamed curls. I was.
With each touch, I became a frown. I am now emptiness and I am sadness and I am the split ends of my short, tired hair.
I’m still crawling out of my skin and, after two years,
I still try to scrub him off in the shower and I still try to swallow and digest his whispers.
It took me a week to go back to class and listen to his smug chuckle next to me,
and listen to his stories of the girls’ virginities that he held.
And I wondered how many of them were taken, not given.
It took me ten minutes to use a pass to go cry in the bathroom
and it took me two months to leave school completely.
But even as I gave up my life to escape him,
his begging apology seemed to be enough.
I even believed him when he said it wasn’t rape and it only took two more apologies for him to lay me down on his bed,
for him to slip off my clothes and moan disgusting words into my ear.
He didn’t have to hold a blade to my neck
and I knew he would never hit me.
He didn’t have to
because he had twelve counts of willingness
against one night of “no’s”.
He placed the words into my mouth and I can still hear myself saying:
“I know you didn’t rape me.”
I am not a fun person, unless you were a desperate boy looking for an easy lay
and you could have fun inside me,
and I’d lie beneath your scrawny figure
and I’d moan and pretend to have a great time.
The alcohol and the one hundred and seventy pounds pressing down on me was almost enough to subdue feeling.
Until I was lying beneath a boy who I really loved.
Sex was easy. Sex was accessible.
But I wanted to make love and he wanted to fuck.
So when he said
“You owe it to me,”
I still loved him more than I loved me and all I had to say was:
He left so quickly that night, before I could finish crying
and before I could explain that he used to be different.
He used to be the exception to the rule
and he had been the hope that my decimated heart clung to.
Until that night, when he added himself to a list of people I gave myself away to
simply because they seemed to want a miserable piece of myself more than I wanted it.
I tried to drive away, but I found his sweater in the street;
a sweater he had told me was his grandpa’s.
And all I saw was myself lying there next to it, forming a pile of his nostalgic treasures that he had discarded that night.
A pile of things he used to love until he was done using them.
I wrapped myself up in the metaphor that was his grandpa’s old sweater
and I breathed in the scent of him as my car hugged the corners a little too tight.
I couldn’t tell if the rain was too thick or if my vision was only lost beneath my tears,
but I only drove faster and my organs didn’t jump inside me as my car slipped
because all I wanted was for the road to disappear.
All I wanted was to see nothing.
Have you ever held hands with death?
I’ve walked with him and let him peel away each of my layers,
but I’m indecisive and I’m shy of commitment.
I could never really give myself away to death.
The sly and greedy grim reaper has known me better
and has held my hand more times than the boys who clung tighter to their beer cans and cigarettes; tighter than they would ever cling to me.
And he has known me better than the girl who didn’t taste like cherry chapstick,
but like vodka and sugar and loneliness.
I am not a fun person, for it’s easier to smile and listen.
It’s easier to watch from afar or respond with safe, one word answers.
Closeness has nothing to do with distance and it’s easier to hold hands with my dear old friend death,
than to slip into another’s arms and let him touch me somewhere other than my skin.
I don’t know why I’ve had an influx of porn blogs following me. I’m making this clear, I’m not comfortable with your presence, I’d prefer it if you all stopped following me, thanks.
Some days you want to send pictures to people for no reason. But you don’t want to offend people so you don’t.
This has been my life for two weeks.
"In a world where White supremacy is wreaking physical and psychological havoc on people of color I, at times, choose what I term “strategic apathy” as a means of dealing, of coping, and as a means of living a full and happy life.
Strategic apathy is not a lack of care or concern, but it is a political choice to not fully engage as a self-preservation mechanism. It is a specific kind of momentary withdrawal where groups or individuals chose to live, laugh, and love in spite of all the reasons not to."