Grippy Socks

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:
“Rag Doll – Aerosmith” ★
01:22 ━━━━●───── 04:16
ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻ ♡

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I like to please. I love when I feel used by a guy because I mistake it for love. I know it’s not love, but I really don’t care.

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When Michael left that day I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like he stole the air from lungs when he walked out that door. I couldn’t express how I felt because if I did–if the mask cracked–the hospital would have kept me longer. So I joked. Said that I only had a crush on him to stop myself from going insane. And the second my high from him was over I was already desperate to find my new obsession. 

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I’m sure he had his name tattooed on him, but I can’t really remember. The happy pheromones they usually pump in the air must have been replaced with something to make people ditzy that day. He called me a “Walking Contradiction,” apparently a black girl who likes metal music is an oxymoron. He remembered that I liked metal and I can’t even remember his name. 

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I don’t enjoy sex, I like the acts it comes with. I love being slapped, choked, spit on… the list goes on and on. The acts are violent and degrading enough to excite me, but not too crazy to the point that the guy realizes that I might not be okay. Maybe I want them to know that. Maybe that’s why I sat next to him. 

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There was another older guy in there that I grew close to. He had a son my age that he said he wished he’d be more like me–if only he knew. We also bonded over music and told me my feelings for Michael were valid and I should explore it while I’m still young–if only he knew. I wanted him to feel something, it hurt me that he didn’t. Nothing’s worse than a bruised ego. I took off my sweatshirt and let my girls do the talking. I saw them stare, I like knowing that they want me.

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Compliments are a dime a dozen.

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Any man can tell you that you’re pretty. But when no one says it enough to a little girl she grows up and hates her face. Hates her body. Hates her hair. Hates the things she does to just be able to breathe.