She’s the kind of girl who leaves immediately after sex. It’s not so much to say that she crawls out of bed, but she rolls over and checks out getting lost inside her head, trying to forget all the shame and sweat poured into something that she would ultimately regret. And it isn’t because she isn’t capable of love but if I had to muster up an excuse I’d be willing to bet that it’s the way every other boy said it was the best she’d ever get.
So she pushes on broken, making every step count but what she doesn’t realize is that stepping backward will never amount to anything more than the very least she could’ve ever hoped for. Because inside the shell she created and painted to look like a smile is a puzzle with half the pieces missing and the other half damaged, barely holding together and managing an image, not quite recognizable, of a girl who barely managed.
And though she’s only a few years older now, she’s a million years wiser. She writes the word love using more than syllable. She uses her heart as a cup as if it were fillable, storing every last word that’s been said to her as if they were willable. As if someone someday could cash in on her loss and use the things she’s bottled up as a self serving cross. But if you stopped to pay attention you’d see her eyes are gloss. There’s no life inside the damaged hide covering the broken bones making up a girl who died the first day she decided to lay down for him. And for him. And him, and so on. But she goes on. Until someone stops her to make her feel worth something, anything, she will go on.