We were both young. I thought I was so madly in love that words could be replaced. Trying to have sex was a challenge. I was too small. I was too scared. I wasn’t ready. He told me that he was frustrated. He wanted to “make love.” It was getting difficult because I knew my body didn’t want him inside of me yet, but I also didn’t want him to leave me. We tried. It never worked.
Eventually, I was sleeping over at his house and he said he wanted to try. I told him no and said I wasn’t feeling well. I received the silent treatment, followed by his hands groping me in spooning position, slowly taking off all my clothes. Eventually my squirming was stopped by forceful hands, and I was laying there, shut. He eventually said, "F*** it,” and got off of me. When he was getting up, he “slipped,” and went inside. I started crying and screaming and bleeding. I bled everywhere. His sheets were stained. He grabbed me more, not acknowledging my distress. “We did it!” he screamed. I’ve never seen someone so happy.
The entire music class knew the next day. My teacher overheard him telling his friends how hard it was to get in, because he was “too big." I ended that high school year feeling violated and scared. I had no one to tell, because I had pushed away all my friends and my family did not approve of him either.
After that night, I bled for two weeks straight, like my body was trying to shed the memory from the inside out. The relationship ended four months after. I didn’t realize the severity of it until I actually wanted to share my body with someone and I couldn’t. I hurt. I still hurt. And I still feel like everyone is undressing me with their eyes. My skin is still geographic. But slowly, physical activity is starting to not seem like a foreign language anymore. When I bleed, I still think of him. Blood reminds me of what was supposed to be love. I guess I’m still learning what love is.