And this is wrong, it’s so wrong, and you feel like you want to throw up, but in a good way? No, no if it was good then you’d be smiling. Nervous and shaking and sick but still smiling. But you’re not smiling now and you’re sick, and you can feel the acid in your stomach churning, and it’s not good and you want to die, it’s so wrong. But then you think about smiling and you actually do smile, and that just made it worse because now you know he won’t stop, he won’t listen, because you smiled why did you smile?! Now he won’t believe you when you say it’s hurting because you’re still smiling and you hate yourself for smiling when you’re nervous or sick or sad or guilty because now he won’t stop.
“You make me sick, god you’re such a whore.” Ooh and now he’s using that dirty talk that makes you feel so gross, so disgusting, so saturated and used. And you still like to imagine you’re untouched, still like the sound of virginity even if it falls on deaf ears because everyone knows you’re not. Ever since him they knew, because no one could not know, no one could look at him standing next to you and not notice the smug smile he wore and the way his fingers curled around your belt loop like he owned you, and he did. He owned every part of you, every flake of dead skin that fell off and re-grew and fell off again. The dead parts of your skin, he even owned those. If anyone had wanted to touch you they couldn’t, because his presence was so strong even when he wasn’t there that they were afraid they’d be sucked in too, afraid to be owned like you were.