I remember the first time I had to drive myself to the emergency room, leaving my ex sleeping in the first bed we ever shared. My eardrum had blown out, and he didn’t care. I dragged myself sideways down the emergency room corridor, and with little hearing I remember the hollowness of my voice when they asked me if I came alone, the echoing “Yes” sinking what felt like forever from the back of my throat to the bottom of my spine. I could barely hear the outside world, and I was alone. Yes, I was alone, much moreso than the nurse realized, and I realized it right then. A random stranger was more interested in my wellbeing than the man whose cum I still had inside me.
I used to imagine that at my funeral, while I was waiting to bleed out of the only wrist that I could hold a knife to after he dislocated the other shoulder, or drifting off into whatever chemical oblivion I hoped would finally be better than having someone so beautiful tell me once again that I was the worst thing that ever happened to anyone, that I was selfish, and not good enough, and just a horrible whore and no good to anyone and an embarrassment to his family, and there was not enough money in the account and why don’t I just go fuck someone for it and obviously I’m not good enough or I’d get as much money as the white girls on the internet and now he can’t touch me because I’m a dirty whore and I’m so pathetic I can’t even kill myself… I used to imagine that at my funeral they would say that it was a shame I was so beautiful.