sparrow

(this story may be triggering for some readers and includes depictions of self-harm and disordered eating habits. if you are easily triggered, please continue with caution. the events in this story are loosely based on real people and events, though this is predominantly a work of fiction.)

he once asked me if i believed in true love. i kisses his sugar-spun lips and said that i thought love belonged in the fairy tales.

he had galaxies in his deep green eyes, sandy hair and a crooked grin. he smiled weakly and laughed with a depth that seemed too large for his petite frame. after school we’d drive to his house and smoke pot in his brother’s room until his mom came home. on weekends we made out in his room between rounds of call of duty and made late night taco bell runs for spicy frito burritos. we spent new year’s eve drinking cheap vodka and six-packs of budweiser, watching the ball drop on his dad’s brand new tv. hours later we were drunk enough to forget what year it was. at midnight he kissed me twice for good luck, because once just wasn’t enough.

the first night we had sex was the first night i dragged a blade across my skin, because i couldn’t wash the guilt from my hands and from my thighs. i learned that scars are easily hidden in places where clothing sits, even in the locker room before gym class. he learned that ultimatums were easier than asking for permission. we snuck kisses during class where we could hide from the cameras in the hallway, and spent lunch sitting on opposite sides of the table because we didn’t want the others to know about us. i daydreamed about the day we might walk hand in hand down the halls, though deep down i knew it would never happen. we were oil and water, too different to ever blend together. too different to ever be anything more than volatile.

he spent more time ditching class than he did in attendance. i spent more time bouncing my leg and biting my lip than i did taking notes. eventually every meal was met with disdain towards the way i looked and the way it felt when his hands were on my back or my hips. the guilt crept forward and swallowed me whole, giving birth to a fear of food, a terror at the idea of gaining weight, and a distaste for everything about my body. i don’t know if he knew how i felt about myself; if he did he was good at hiding it.

on valentine’s day we sat down to pasta and salad on fancy dish wares, chocolate heart-shaped candies and cheap champagne. we spent the remainder of the night rotating between multiplayer death matches and sloppy make out sessions. after enough champagne, we had sex that i didn’t remember the next day.

he told me he loved me on the phone one night and i cried and told him i loved him too, though i wasn’t sure exactly what love looked like. was it bruised knees and bandaids on bloodied hips? was it skipping class to play video games and smoke weed? was it a blade wrapped in paper hidden in my panty drawer? was it two bottles of budweiser before i could tolerate him inside of me? was it crying myself to sleep at night because i wasn’t sure what was real anymore?

he taught me that hurting myself was the only way i could feel, that sex was just as easily a tool as it was a show of affection, that sitting up until 1am smoking resin from a pipe wasn’t how i wanted to spend my time. he taught me that i’d have to eat like a sparrow if i wanted to be lovely and that the things i hated about myself were easily hated about me.

he taught me that just because someone says they love you, it doesn’t mean their version of love even remotely resembles yours.