Revenge

The bar-stool is half an inch too high, balancing myself precariously my fingers search blindly through my clutch for what my ex-pastor referred to as my "tar deathsticks." The idea of my pastor seeing me here lifts the corners of my scarlet lips a little, the Eternal Struggle for my Soul is lost amid men with dirty beards and my too-tight faded jeans.
Across the bar, a man with dirty blond hair consults with his friend dressed in a tar splattered orange jumpsuit.  They send surreptitious glances my way; I begin a mental countdown.  Five...he snuffs his half-smoked cigarette out, four...he picks through his wallet for a crumpled bill, three...he downs the rest of his beer, two...he slides off the stool. 
One.
"Hey there, buy you a drink?"  Wait, count to ten Mississippis, then glance slowly up through smoky eyes.
"I'm good, thanks."
"Well shoot, what's a guy gotta do around here to show a lady a good time?"  Forcing a laugh I slide off the stool, knowing full well that when I do I'll be standing an inch too close and be forced to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. Cue the smolder.
"What's a girl gotta do to enjoy a beer in peace."  I've got him, his look of longing betrays him and all the swagger in the world won't save him now.  He moves a hair's breath closer and I let my chest heave a little, knowing that it won't escape his notice.
"Well I know a place with plenty of beer and no strange men to bother you."
"Oh?"  My fingers are closing around my clutch before the words are out of his mouth.
"Come back to my place."

The kitchen is shabby, filled with cheap plastic plates staked neatly in cupboards with no doors.  He sets a beer in front of me and swings the door closed with his hip, I survey my surroundings as I bring the bottle to my lips.
"You been in town long?"  He is eying me; hasn't taken his eyes off me since we walked through the front door.
"No, not really.  Just passing through."  He smiles, nods in what he must think is a comforting manner.
"Girls like you should watch yourself down at Jimmy's, it's a rough crowd."
"Girls like me?"  He is around the counter now, hands reaching to caress my body.
"Pretty little things with no one to watch out for them."  I step back, gripping my clutch in one hand and my beer in the other.
"I can watch out for myself."
He lunges, and pins me against the counter, Struggling my beer crashes to the floor and explodes in a rage of foam and green glass.
"Oh, come on don't fight it, you want this.  You can't walk into a bar dressed like that and not want this-"  His fingers scrabble at my chest, my hair- I lean back and dig my nails in.  I don't see his left arm until it's too late and my face is screaming in pain.
"ENOUGH."  I'm angry now- in three seconds the gun is out of my clutch and with a quiet pop the struggle is over. 

Red mixes with my beer's foam, through his back pocket I can see the led of a cell phone screen light up.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- the phone shows a picture of him and a beautiful brunette standing on a sandy beach embracing.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- I flip it open.

"Hi, it's me.  I'm sorry to tell you that you're right, he did take me home.  He won't be laying a hand on you again."

Snapping the phone shut, I am careful to tread on him on my way out the door.

Sleep in heavenly peace

In the backyard we play.  It's all pirates and fairy princesses, stick-swords and mud pits.  Hours and hours of jumping through nettles and finding bird's nests and singing the songs of nature.  I am one of the lucky ones. 

Somewhere, today, there are Christmas trees with stacks of presents still virgin to prying fingers and critical eyes.  It's too much, once twice, thrice- how many more before we find a solution for our human nature?

Somewhere today, a girl I love is grieving.  Last week, yesterday, last night we complained about men and school and unemployment-today that horrible word cuts our mouths again.  Suicide, what a selfish action.  Nothing we can say, nothing we can do to find an answer for this.

And now, they tell us, find your loved ones and hold them tight.  What a cruel proclamation, it must be purposeful spite that this is the only solution put forward.  No loved ones, not here.  I am utterly alone, and what timing too.  I could perhaps try to find solace in a warm bed with a laughing companion, but the thought right now makes me sick.  Easy for him to say-perhaps, so happy to be on his own- but I cannot as easily ask another to fill that space.  I would give years off my life for a hug, a gentle kiss on my forehead, a silent embrace.  Impossible.

So today, I suppose, I am not ok. 

Monologue

For the play I (we) devised about broken hearts.  What I will say:

I remember the first night I ever stayed in a boys room.  I left at like five in the morning, I remember wondering if I was supposed to wake him or not-so awkward. I crept out of the room and I can remember the smell of the hallway.  It smelled like-like old rancid pizza boxes, he lived right by those horrible trash rooms.  But also, there were the showers right there and someone must have just gotten out because the door was swinging and wafting this really good cologne into the hallway.  So it was this mix of really really bad and really good freshly washed man.  And as I was leaving, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I just stood there looking at myself and thinking,
Who are you?
  
What I wish I had the guts to say:

I remember the night that I got my heart broken.  I was sitting on the bed and all the air in me was gone, just gone, and I was gasping.  And he tried to walk away and I wanted to scream, maybe I did scream- don't you dare leave me.  There was nothing. No smells.  No self realization.  Just empty.  And I'm sitting there, on the bed, and all I want is for someone to come in and say, "Haha, just kidding," but no one comes and no one comes and then later when he leaves I'm alone.  And I've been alone ever since. 

Tomorrow, in front of fifty people I may not know or even see again.  Maybe I'll do it, maybe I'll have the courage and go for broke-won't my actors be surprised when they hear the unrehearsed raw words in my mouth.  No-I won't.  I'll go back to old hurts, long since faded and mostly healed.  I'll pull at old scabs, hoping to get some inch of pain to lend an aura of authenticity to the performance.  Because the real thing, that's just too much.  

This has been stuck in my head all day...

Damn it.  Two days ago I was so happy.  It's easier to be happy thinking you hate me, than to realize you still care even a little.

Wishy-washy

Goddamn it, don't you understand?  It's YOU.  It's always been YOU.  I wish the next time, you would look into my eyes and see beyond my simple desire to the fact that you truly fulfill me in a way that I don't think anyone else can.  You're my fantasy and no one else can live up to that. 
You said, years ago, that we're made for each other.  Well, I still think that's true.  But I can't believe that anymore, I'm not allowed to.  That was lost between the passive aggressive fights and the lies and the months upon months of both of us hurting. 
But right now, this feels right.
This feels good (so good)
And you need to stop fucking thinking about things and just let them happen.

Point of no return

I have a final in four hours and I don't think I'm going to pass.  Should have started studying at three pm, should have--but then a message and a smile and a tear and after that it was all pillows and stuffed animals and sleep. 
Sleep, for hours upon hours and in my dreams I was nineteen again and I was a goddess.  Dream me thinks she's beautiful, she's never been told otherwise.  She puts on makeup and then wipes it off slightly, precisely tousling her hair and replying to her someone special "I was just about to go to bed, but if you want to come over...." Dream me was both a slut and an innocent. 
All of a sudden I'm awake and there is a name on my lips, the same one I've been calling out in my sleep for months now (so my roommates tell me) only now it's forbidden fruit.
Damn it, this is the first time in days.  I am happy, was happy, will be happy?  I know I get the twinges, the pain in my chest; outwardly I feign graciousness but inwardly I have to hate you, at least for a while, for self-preservation's sake. 
I know what happened, all that happened, I've known since the beginning.  I know that my friends have told me one by one that they wouldn't attend a wedding, if it happened-and still I dreamed in white organza. 
"Thank God," they say, and I parrot-
"Thank God, Thank God I'm only mostly broken, thank God I have a semester left to act like and idiot.  I didn't want love really, not now-right?  Thank God I finally admitted what I have always know the truth to be."  So, with all my thanks, why do I suddenly regret my acceptance of the truth?
I am worth more, I know.  I'm worth more than the fear, more that the pain, the mysterious bruises and the soreness that lasts for days. 
He tells me he's wanted this forever, he tells me that I'm beautiful, I'm sexy.  It seems a cruel game to me, the compliments of all the things that were once pointed out as flaws.  I can't have a nice derriere, my waist is too big and my eyes not blue enough.  He is sweet though, and yes it makes me happy.  Not loved, but happy enough to giggle at the sound of my phone's vibration. 
I said, the next time I gave myself it would be to the man I married.  I won't marry him, and it's hard-so hard, not to revoke my oath.  But I won't-I can't.  I know I'm purer than that, I know that I am still saving myself, in a way.  One day I will have my white dress with it's cap sleeves and Victorian corset and bustle; and when that man goes down on his knee I will tell him a thousand times yes-but only if I can take his last name and truly belong to him as he belongs to me.  On that day, maybe, I'll think about brown eyes and hair that sticks up too much in the back.  Maybe not. 
God knows that now the dreams started again, they won't stop.  I'll push away sleep for as long as I can in the hope that when I do fall into it, it will be dreamless. 
I am happy, so much happier than before- I am not scared anymore and I have rediscovered spontaneity and enthusiasm for life. 
Now though, it's 5:26 am and I am so scared of my immanent failure, I would give anything to hear one sound of comfort from a familiar voice.  The voice would tell me to stop stressing and get my shit done, and that would make me oh-so angry but even in my anger there would be comfort. 
Instead, I close my eyes and try to return to my dream world and the girl in it who is still loved.

The hard truth

You know that thing you thought I loved?  He does it better.

Independence

He doesn't remember when he hits me.  The next morning I'm up, black and blue, and he's complaining that all the covers are in a heap on the floor.  He doesn't remember pulling them off me and forcing himself into me my scream. 
These bruises, on my thighs, my wrists- I joke about being abused and he laughs along enjoying the fun.  Such a game, such a fun sport of words and emotional perry and thrust-him never truly knowing what the stakes are. 
Last night, I sank into beautiful blue-green eyes.  They were soft and nervous and I was shaking and it was strange, so strange not to cower at the fingertips, to have them brush my back softly without my begging.  Oh, it was wonderful, being loved for such a short amount of time.
I have a permanent smile on my face and a skip in my step.
I'm free.
Free.
Free.

And somewhere, beautiful blue eyes (they were always blue) are waiting.