Oh go on, tell me. Explain to me what I meant when I wrote those words. See, without you to explain them, how would I ever know I was writing about love or death or sex or anything in between. See, it all started when I was a child and a man grabbed my knee to inform me I was pretty, rubbing it like he was cleaning a stain out the bathtub and slyly said, “Just wait till you grow up.” It continued when I saw my first dick in person and my young mouth proclaimed “well you got the short end of the stick, that shit’s ugly” and I was called a whore. It progressed when I posted my first self portraits, the ones I agonized over before sitting down and writing a list of the all the reasons I should be nude on the internet. It continued when I clapped back and told a man he had no idea how to talk to women and he replied “I was raised by them.”
Your dick didn’t change me when I let a man in, let him know it was ok to explore. Girls are told that losing your virginity is a big deal, that it changes you fundamentally which is why virgins always get a higher price. I got a bigger rush getting kicked out of all you can eat buffets- three in my wild career. Maybe it’s because I recognized I was the same girl prior to your penis that I was immediately after. That I still understood the words I wrote even when you tried to explain them back to me. I didn’t know what I was talking about. Clearly.
Your dick didn’t change me when you violated my trust and took control the last night I ever got black out drunk. I flew out the door of your dorm and in through a friend’s window at 5am, shaking and crying. Once the tears ended, I’m the one that changed me. To give you the satisfaction of that pleasure is not in my power. It is in my power to keep control of what’s mine, of the words that drip from my mouth and the sneers that form on my lips. To continue giving myself power, knowing that between my legs I hold the power of life and death.
So please, tell me again what I mean; cause I’m serious when I say your dick didn’t change me.