Sometimes when I
look down at my arm,
I still see the bite mark
you had left on me.
The pale red,
the slight blue,
how this was technically
a \'hickie\' but I did not
receive any satisfaction
from it. Seeing the colors
bloom on my white skin
was not fun for me.
You took a bite out
of me, and yet I kept
all of my flesh. My skin
was still intact, but I
could no longer stake
claim to it. The
approximate 6 centimeters
of my arm were no longer
mine. I have your name
written on me like how
a child writes on a foggy
mirror- and that is what
we were.
Children.
You were a 7th grader
writing your name on a
foggy mirror, expecting
it to go away when the
room finally cooled.
But I did not cool.
and I was not your mirror
to write in, anyway. I am
not something for other
people to look at and
make them feel better
about themselves. I am
not here to build your ego.
Sometimes I look down
at the bite on my arm,
and I wish I was poisonous.
I wish there was a way
I could destroy you with
the bits of me you stole.
I wish I could paint on
brightly colored war paint
and make sure no one ever
tried to devour me again.
I am tired of being treated
like some sort of meal,
some sort of food- I am
not even a delicacy to you,
but a slab of meat you prefer
to consume raw. I am tired
of boys and men like you
turning me into nothing but
some blood on your chin.
My blood is my blood and
I write my own victory cry in it.
Sometimes when I
look down at my arm,
I see the bite mark you
planted on me.
And I bite it again, but harder.
This is me taking back what is
mine. This is me turning the name
you wrote into a smiley face. This
is me turning my victimhood into venom.