Stained.

Why did girls always have to watch out for this gross possibility when contemplating the motives of that strange species, the young adult human male?


Actually, I wouldn’t be one of those girls. If that male had unpleasant intentions, I could handle. I’d know what to expect and I’d know how to counter it. But if his intentions were virtuous, I’d be at a loss. Here’s one situation in which I panic. In a matter of months I’ve morphed into someone who is not accustomed to happiness. It’s not like I hadn’t aspired it, I reached out for it and I burnt my hand. Therefore, it is straight-up biology that my brain tells me never to put my hand near it again, ever. Not all pots are boiling water yes yes, but I can’t see beyond the bottom of the kettle see. Even if there isn’t a fire under it, I’m convinced it’s an electric kettle. I have no doubt in my mind that they are set there to hurt me.


This ridiculous fear of mine has dribbled onto other aspects of my life. Now I can’t even hold a hot mug of coffee witbout worrying that it might scorch my hand. Due to my ludicrous, maybe imaginary dread, I stick to cold drinks. I’m okay with not having variety really. I like things the way they are. I don’t want, much less need change in my life. My friends are enough to get me by my whole life. The last thing I need is to feel at a loss over what to think about him, what he thought about me, to discern from what he said and done what he might be thinking about me, where he was hoping things between us to go. I shiver with displeasure at the idea of this giddy happy delight… simply because I know I have done nothing to merit it. I am not deserving of happiness.


I’d be more comfortable with a guy who’d come to me, earnest and forward, and say “I assure you, that I would leave you for no good reason in approximately 6 months and by then I guarantee you, that I have already been sleeping with some other chick.”


That, I can handle because I’ve been there, done that, worn the T-shirt... twice.


I hate the fact that they have left such a mark on me. I hate the idea that I’ve become so cynical when I’ve been dreaming of baby names since I was fourteen. I hate the truth that I am so consumed by my obsession with keeping a distance that I probably am never again, able to trust and love like I know I could. Because I think that I have a lot to offer. But I am broken. All I have to offer are fragmented pieces of myself, so charred the carbon could kill.


And when he carelessly reaches for my hands and speak of the supposed twinkling in my eyes I flinch and back away because I am terrified. Because beyond these eyes there is a dull ache throbbing at the back of my head, from the rivers I’ve cried, the headache never goes away and I’m suffering from a perpetual hangover.


Something precious was set in front of me and in all its glory, by God did I want it. And I had it, but then I became deranged, every word uttered hurts even when its not meant to, every glance stabs, every matter a knife through my wrist. I ceased to be able to see goodness and wicked, all I saw was pain and a dead end for me. All I saw was red. So when I’m offered something real, I run for the hills before it trips me and I fall into oblivion before having my heart torn apart by the seams, pieces soaked in gasoline and set on fire with a cheap matchstick.