Paper Airplanes

Paper airplanes of pleasantries 

Coast along the morning breeze

Creatingโ€‹ desire lines they tease

Thoughts of you and me.

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But who would believe it?

Am I awake?

Are my eyes open? 

Where am I? It’s so dark my eyes cannot find prisms for feedback.

“Ouuu-ah!
What is…

–aaaahhhh!”

A palm is placed over my mouth.

I jerk my head side to side in a motion to release. And I can’t find my hands in time.
“What is – – ”

I moan between a tense jaw and buckled teeth.
Wow. I start to gain senses.
The weight of his body pins me back and his eagerness pushes into me deeper.
I can’t tell if I’m enjoying it because I think I just woke up. How did we get here and why is everything so loud? I can hear sparks from space and suddenly a slaughtering scream from the crease of light between my hell and high school.
 

Follow the light.

He pulls me up, spins me on my feet and shoves my panties in my pocket. I hear the words “birth control” and I nod my head in sleepy assurance. He picks up my chin and as we near the slight light his silhouette becomes a friendly face.
“But how–?” I start to ask and he answers by opening the portal. I try to adjust my pupils calmly as I am suddenly stage fright to a party. I spin to my right and face a firearm. Am I dreaming? I rub my eyes and look up to catch your seaglass stare of disbelief. Your friend should have ended me, for what came next was the hardest scar to heal.
Your bestfriends lead me out of the room, one by forced love, one by firearm–
And you,
my boyfriend,
hold me accountable.

Women race me to the restroom to clean me up. I’m bruised, broken, chin deep in tears and fluids
And I’m empty. 
For the rest of my life I will have words tattooed on the roof of my mouth that have deserved to ring your ears and shatter your seagreen eyes.
But who would believe it?

Short

I’ve always known I wasn’t going to live a long life. From a young age I would say this and it would terrify my mother. I would assuredly state, “but 36 is old. I won’t make it to thirty-six.” 

In the coming years I would learn about my father’s mental health issues. That darn hereditary gene. I understood, then, why my mother left and it suddenly made sense that I would never find someone for myself. And I was never short of being told.

The first came from an angry ex. A random boyfriend who decided his last words to me would be, “You’re cold. You’ll never find someone that will love you.” 

The next came from a parent. Yup, the same parent whom I share this lovingly depressing disease. And finally, a sibling. Sweet siblings, that tell you everything you don’t want to hear. And that was my final straw. The straw that broke more than my back. 

See, for so long people thought I had such a stone heart that it never phased them when they were throwing stones. I’m sure they figured I would just shrug it off. Take it like a man. Rub some dirt on it. And walk away. 

But each stone cast has been eternally swallowed and absorbed, building an even bigger wall around my heart. So much so, that my chest has become the heaviest it’s felt in years. 

And so I will not live to see thirty-six. I will likely die of this disease, a stoning for the whole world to see. Ashamed, sad, and alone. But at least I’ll finally get it right.