Back pocket girl

When I was only eight years old I remember walking around the neighborhood
just before dark. I would peer into the homes just around suppertime. I could
smell wonderful things cooking as they wafted through the air. I would
occasionally stop and see a family sitting down to eat through their front
window. I’d stop and stand there, eyes transfixed. “Should this be what a family is like?” I
thought. They seemed so peaceful, happy even, smiling as they ate together.
There was no belt on their kitchen table. They’re allowed to talk during dinner.

To be loved, I wanted that so badly……. that it actually ached inside my little chest.

I knew I wasn’t cute enough, smart enough, or good enough. I held fast to the idea that one of my teachers might “see” how badly I wanted rescuing. If I just was nice enough, they might take me home in their back pocket and give me a new life. But…. that never did happen.

No one ever knew the shit that went on in my house behind the picket white fence.

Months turned to years and my fantasy of finding a “home”,  someone to adopt
me and rescue me from the hellish existence took on new form. As I entered
womanhood, I stumbled rather curiously into my own untapped potential of

However sex to me was a perversion, a remnant of the past, that I wanted
to stay buried. Wreckage of painful childhood memories, its unspeakable trauma and
hidden scars, left sexuality for me inexplicably fused with terror.

Men looked at me now, all fully developed and seemingly wanted me or so I
initially thought. The opportunity for love came rushing to the forefront again. But I, I was a quick study, I inherently knew, they didn’t
want me, they wanted what was between my legs. And so began a deep-seated anger. I
resented men. For I wanted their love, their affection and they…….they only wanted sex.

Sex; used to hurt me as a child.
Used as a game, a weapon, to exploit me, humiliate me,  abuse me.

How on earth would I ever find a home now? How on earth since I wasn’t
a “cute” little girl anymore I pondered, if I would only be seen as a sexual thing, was anyone
ever going to love me.

I hated my body, it had betrayed me.

I hated myself for being such an unlovable damaged piece of shit.

My dream of finding love seemed as elusive as it ever had before, and fading

Go ahead, make my day :)

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