To the Previous Me

 

March seventeenth

ten years old

My mother always told me to go outside and play with the little boy who picked the apples off the tree

Maybe he'll plant a seed in my heart

But I had no interest in boys

I was more worried about losing one of the pieces to my polly pockets

 

May twenty first

fifteen years old

I had my first real boyfriend

He told me I was the apple of his eye

kissing was weird but I did it anyways

That’s what he told me I was supposed to do

Hanging out with my friends was so much more interesting

 

September 14th

16 years old

Everyone is supposed to have a partner  

You are supposed to be together constantly

If he hadn’t texted back in fifteen minutes he must be cheating

He couldn’t be eating

Because that's not important anyways

 

At the age of seventeen

His eyes were fixated on my body instead of my mind

He was picking me apart like the apples he picked off the trees

It didn’t matter

Those branches seemed so low, and yet,

I was on his shoulders picking at me, along with him

At least someone was interested in me

 

Everyone was having sex

That’s what he told me

 

Seventeen years six months and fourteen days at three thirty in the afternoon

I realized flesh bruised as easy as Apples

This was the first time he hit me

 

Everyone fights

 

It’s ok

 

I love him

I won't do it again

I'm sorry

 

I forgive him

And I'm sorry

 

Seventeen years six months and fifteen days at four forty five

Today we hung out with my friends at the mall  

I wish we didn’t

We left early because he told me he had something to tell me

I think he had something to show me

 

He pushed my face into the plywood that covered his trailer floor

Repeatedly he screamed at me

WHAT IS THIS!

WHAT DO YOU SEE!

 

I cried that night

 

I told him that it was ok

 

I understood what I did wrong and wouldn’t do it again

 

Seventeen years eight months

The apples of my cheeks don’t glow anymore

I’ve learned to cover my bruises so no one questions the cause of them

I paint my face

with red lipstick

And shade my eyelids the color of night

That’s the way he likes it

 

He would say

 

You look beautiful

The eve to my Adam

 

Let's tend the garden, train the plants to grow into the beautiful things i know they can be.

Beautiful like you”

 

No.

Obedient like me

I hate the color red

It too closely resembled the blood that spilled from my veins

He doesn't notice or maybe doesn't care like fireworks mid-day

I love him though

 

Seventeen years eight months

I'm sick and not in the cancer way but at the same time, I'm sick in the cancer way

I'm sick of the way his hate multiplies

And grows,

I'm sick that I'm not growing

 I am sick of the way I am his Apple tree, throw away the parts of me he doesn't like

I am sick of him hitting me

I am sick of lying

I am sick of him

 

I'm sick of myself

 

Eighteen years

I no longer hide the bruises

I no longer wipe the tears  

I am finally taking control

 

I finally told someone

 

To the previous me

 

I’m finally letting you go

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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