What is it like to be me? You have often thought of me as confident, sultry, sexy, impish. A perverse half smile always written across my face. And in fact, I have been twisted into that shape. I lost whatever innocence was left long ago. I don’t even remember what that felt like, it was stolen from me, when I was a child. I don’t have a memory of what it was like, not to be aware of my own sex, and the power it had over men. I don’t know innocence.
And I hold some of those memories, I hold a lot of her memories. Both the physical and sexually violent ones. But, I am not.. I am not the picture you’ve painted of me. I didn’t want this, it’s just who I am now. My, presentation, the charm, the ability to fish for vulnerability and reel people in… it’s all an act. It’s a shield for the rest of us…and a really effective one.
What is it about people? When they get to know her… it’s like her authenticity… her open vulnerability… her radical acceptance of broken people…. her loyalty…. her wit, infectious laughter, and smile — it’s like an aphrodisiac for those that are able to get close enough to experience it. It draws people in… and then suddenly, I’m there. To clean up the mess… to get her out of another bind. To fuck our way out of the trap she found us in. It’s happened time and time again. She trusted far too easily, the wrong people, and I had to be there to lay down for all the predators who wanted to taste her.
And it wasn’t just her falling into these traps, sometimes other parts… would throw her into these situations with dangerous people intentionally, to be hurt. She wasn’t even aware of the growing self-hatred and self-disgust bubbling deep inside us. Sex was the self-flagellation we sought, a sad attempt to cure her of this indescribable need to be punished. She deserved to be punished, we deserved it, for the bad things we’d done…. as a child. We deserved the pain.
It’s complex, because at times… we craved it… maybe if we could take control… if it was us who chose to be sexually brutalized… it would make… the times we didn’t have a choice… ok.
Eventually, I got used to this way of life. Eventually, I died inside and what’s left is nothing but a shell. Maybe that’s why she can never be truly happy. Maybe that’s why she can’t really feel love. Maybe I am the rotting core, the decay, the growing cavity in her chest, that prevents all that. Maybe it would be better, if I were dead.
Then who would clean up the mess? Who would protect her? She would have to face it alone. But maybe it’s time. I certainly have no will to stay here. It would be nice, not to have to live this life anymore. Death sounds like relief.
-Deviant
…I hate that name.