The Grooves of His Skin

The longer you know someone, the more you begin to realize some very intricate details about them. Why is this exactly? Well, if you would ask me, I would say that you’re too used to each other, and you find yourself looking for something new. Every second I spend in his presence, I recognize the things I already know. I know that his toes are very boney, and his legs are particularly skinny. His shoulders fill out his body with their muscle, bringing me shelter and comfort. I could trace my fingers along his body completely blind, and I would comprehend every direction, every feature, probably even better than I can my own. He is the other half of myself and I know him in ways I cannot describe, but you see, it comes to this point that I know him so well, it’s almost too well. I need to find something new, and if you look hard enough, you can almost always find something you have never seen before. Lately, I find myself study the direction that his hair grows. I look at the pores of his face, to evaluate where he would have acne if he had hormones like I do. I could imagine that sounds rather strange, but I could also say that our relationship is very different, at least I’ve been told. Now imagine this: each of us have the individual pattern of our skin. Each are different, there is not one person with that same print. That is the one thing that is particularly special to him. I believe that if I took the time to study this hard enough, I would have created the strongest connection with him that I ever could find. I can match the love that radiates between each grove of my finger print, as I trace it along each familiar part, finding love in each of his. We were specially made, this is a fact, but not everyone seems to realize that we were specially made for each other.

That Awful Name.

I’m young, right? Too young, a lot of people would say. “Fifteen year old girl, and she’s sexually active, wow, she must be such a slut.” Yeah, I know, I’ve heard it a million times. It never seemed to stop me. After all, just because I’m having sex does not mean I’m a slut, or a whore, or anything like that. But that is not what this is about at all.

As I’ve said about a million times, I’m in a very serious, loving relationship with a boy who is seventeen. I’m am a sophomore in high school, and he is a senior. I think it’s fair to say that the two of us are helplessly in love. But of course, like any other group of teenagers, we lust for each other too. There are times where him and I are left alone, and the atmosphere becomes warm, and somehow the sexual tension pulls the two of us together, regardless of the intentions. That’s naturally expected, especially at this age, with the hormones that we have. My boyfriend and I have had sex quite a few times during our relationship. I know how this looks. I used to look at other people this was. The situation changes when it’s personal, I guess I could conclude. As an outsider, you witness these kids around you, irresponsibly having sex, making children, all of that. It’s frustrating to be cast into that group under simple assumption, and you’re put into the position where you can’t exactly lie, because it’s not something you want to do. People already assume you’re sexually active, because you look happy, or “too happy,” which is simply ridiculous. My best friend for instance, refers to these kinds of couple as “looking like sex.” I guess she has made that perception based on the fact that when a boy and a girl are so close in their relationship, they’re so together. Do you know what I mean? They move like one person. And that’s understandable because the connection between two people after sharing something so passionate can be very apparent. I seem to be losing my purpose in this. My point it, I suppose that people look at my boyfriend and I, and they see a connection that is as strong as the sex that we have. But I hate that sentence too because it’s not just sex. It’s not just some guy that I met that I decided I wanted to have intercourse with. This is someone who puts the joy in my life. He’s the definition to my happiness, even though I know better than to make a person you’re pure happiness. It happened anyway. He’s the one that will do anything for me, just because I ask, or even when I don’t. He never ceases to surprise me. He makes me bad days better. The power in our love is more than just sex. That’s my point, I guess. I don’t have sex with my boyfriend. I make love to him. We don’t just fuck, put our clothes back on, and go on with our lives. We undress, we kiss, we make love, and when it’s all said and done, we enjoy the silent, beautiful moments where our naked bodies lie so close to each other. That’s our favorite part. The passion, the connection, and the beauty is what makes this more than just another stupid, careless, horny couple. We are set apart from the rest of these people. People notice, and I’m given the names. I’m the slut, the whore, the whatever other awful name they can come up with. And it’s awful. It’s hurtful. It slaughters my self esteem. People should not be seeing me that way. There is a lot more to me as a person. No person that has ever established that label with my name will understand the explanation I just gave of a very distinct difference between what they see, and what is actually going on. So the names will continue. I just wish they would stop. They’re tearing me apart.

It’s Bad Again

This thing happens sometimes when it feels like everything is falling, including myself, and I don’t remember how to function, or focus or anything really. I’m trying to write because I don’t want to keep sinking but I don’t have anyone to talk to about this because everyone just abandons me or thinks I’m crazy and it keep getting worse, and I don’t know what to do. Excuse my run-on sentences but I feel so trapped, and I want to crawl up in a hole and die. I’m trying really hard to stay focused and I have to pretend I’m okay for my mom but I’m not and I need help but I don’t know what to do and I’m just gonna go now, because I’m lost and this isn’t helping me.