Writing his name feels like a panic attack.
I was fifteen. Young kid, lonely.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
He was eighteen. Average man,
He already knew me.
I went to his house and he gave me a hickey.
Little red mark on my neck, pretty pink,
On my skin it stayed, as I leaned over the sink.
Last night's dinner was going to come up.
The bra I wore to his house,
I've only worn it once since then.
Wearing it feels like putting his hands on me.
The jeans I wore to his house,
I lost them and decided not to look.
They were a reminder of the piece of me he took.
Everything we did, I said "yes" to.
He was the first guy to touch my chest,
I had to force my body to be mine again.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
Traumatized so beautifully.
Boy down the street.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
I just wanted to be wanted.
And he wanted my body.
Writing his name feels like a panic attack.
