I wanted to be honest.
I wanted to be true.

Alma, the first girl, and other promises. Like myself was something I could give, if only I could perfect it — because the boys who had held me came back bleeding and blamed me. I guess I have some sharper parts, but it’s not like I’m without my scars. Maybe I was just better with bandages.

I practiced forgiveness, but fumbled when I tried to turn it inward. I studied softness, but let it make me weak; offered up my neck like some sweet fawn for his hands to break. You see, everyone tells me that I was young, but I can’t forget how I knew better. How sometimes my bones ached with the urge to say no, but I smiled instead.

Fury masked with laughter.
Hatred hidden in hope; everyone deserves a second chance (at my expense).

I am honest.
I am true.

I know the weight of it. Pretending. Wishing. I know the strength it takes to be a broken thing and love yourself for it — especially when no one else could or will. To take your sharper parts and wield them like weapons. To recite: only the worthy, only The One.

(I am The One.)
(I always was.)


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