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By Anastasia Torpea All Rights Reserved ©

Other / Poetry

Chapter 1

Have you ever loved someone that didn’t deserve it? Have you ever willingly crawled into bed with someone knowing you would never hold a place in their heart? That has been the basis of my entire life. I can’t help myself, I see someone broke down by life and all I want to do is embrace them. I want to wrap my arms around them and plant copious amounts of kisses on their face. It always gets me into trouble, some more than others but trouble non the less.

I was 13 when I had my first sexual experience; it wasn’t romantic, if anything it was stomach churning. I was with a friend and we were drinking quite a bit. Giggling like little fucking I was smoking pot by the time school girls raiding her liquor cabinet. That’s when we decided to call him.

“Please, please, please call him! Ask him to come over!“, I begged. Looking back I don’t know what the fuck was going through my head. It must have been the booze. That and the daunting fact that I was the only one of my friends that was still a virgin. The boy in question wasn’t so much of a boy, in fact he was at least 17. He must have been able to smell the alcohol on our breath over the phone because he did not hesitate to drive over to her house. I don’t remember much of the night except for stumbling around outside I remember laying on the sewer grate and the air tasting so sweet with ever inhalation. It smelled like honeysuckle. Then I remember walking up the street to his white car without my friend. I can’t recall where she had gone, I think she said ‘fuck it’ and went home. The only thing I can remember after that is him thrusting himself inside of me and crying when he walked me home.

I hate him to this day but on that night my fragile, impressionable mind thought that I loved him. If I recall correctly I even told him so. That experience molded me, it molded every relationship to come there after and the way I present myself to this day.

I was a very odd child growing up. My home life was enough of a disaster to where no matter how friendly anyone was to me I was always the outcast, at least in my mind. When I was 9 years old I would lay on the ground and cry, begging God to kill me and asking why I had ever been born. Sometimes I still have the desire to do that, it’s been 10 years. I believed in Satan rather than God and I prayed to the earth instead of to Jesus. I was smoking pot by the time I was 12 as well as cigarettes. I was depressed, I was medicated, and I was alone.

My life seems to have a pattern, I fall in love with someone, something, some time and I get my heart broken. After that I cry and I try to give my love away again to that same someone, something, some time until my entire fucking soul deteriorates and I’m left with a puddle of tears and memories. Then I give up, I move on and I get into an incredibly manic state and I try everything in my power to better myself! It sounds good, but really I’m just killing myself faster. I’ll work 8 hour shifts and come home to clean the house, watch T.V., paint, and try to write, until I’m left breathless and beaten. I try to distract myself, but that’s always been my problem. I never allow myself to feel. I will tell you something right now, I love someone. I love a man that says he loves me back. He loves me, but he can’t be with me because I interfere with his life. I wish I could describe the way he smells to you because it’s always in my dreams. He is the most beautiful person I have ever met and I fucking love him, but I will never taste his lips again. This refers back to the “giving your love away to someone that doesn’t deserve it” because he doesn’t. If I’m being total honest, no one deserves the kind of love I give. I love profusely, I give my entire being away and I end up in complete distress. But enough about love, love is a fake emotion. Love is an illusion. Love is nothing. I will not let this book be about him or about anyone else for that matter. This book is about me.

As I sit here smoking my cigarette I am in a complete daze. I am lost in my own mind and I am drowning. I am in a constant state of despair; my being is at war. I am at war with myself. My mind will come charging at my heart with a loaded pistol while my heart cowers with nothing but a small sharpened fucking stick. I have to feel these feelings. I have to let these emotions consume my entire being and break me. I cannot keep drowning myself with cheap booze and filling the void in my heart with men that mean nothing to me. I am more than this. I mean more than this. One day I will mean something to someone even if my heart is full of previous loves. I will matter. I will not be a fleeting smile on someone’s face. I will not be a therapist, a sex toy, a punching bag. I will be a human woman and I will look like love to someone someday. I will embody power and strength. I will radiate beauty and knowledge and I swear on everything that is me, one day I will mean something to someone. However, for now I must allow myself to feel this overwhelming sadness. I must let my head pound and my stomach churn, because there isn’t beauty without pain. There isn’t light without dark, and if I don’t know how it feels to mean nothing to no one then I will never know how it feels to one day mean something to someone. I inhale another drag from my cigarette and let out a long sigh. My mind is racing, again attacking my brittle heart but this time I take it. I put down that worthless fucking stick and I let the bullet puncture me. I can feel my insides starting to warm and bleed. The blood races up from my chest to the tip of my tongue and it tastes so sweet.. I start to remember things I had longed to forget, and again my heart is beaten. It is bruised, fucked, and torn to shreds before I finally fucking scream. I cannot take it any longer. Someone must have heard me because I hear a knock on my door.

“WHAT?!“, I shout.

I hear the door crack open, it’s my mother. My beautiful mother. I shouldn’t be so vile towards her but sometimes I cannot help myself.

“Ana what the fuck? Are you okay?”

I hate being asked that question. No. No I’m not okay, I am a rotting corpse of a human full of shit and glass.

I try to muster out and explanation but all that comes out is, “I’m fine, Mom.”

“Oh shut the fuck up, you’re always being so dramatic.”

My beautiful mother. My loving, prosperous mother. My sweet angel of fucking death coming to my side to comfort me yet again. The one person in my life that is always full of so much wisdom that they smack me right back into reality. The reality that is my life. The reality where I remember why I am so vile to the woman that gave me this marvelous gift of life.

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