Filling A Room

cw: sexual assault

I’ve spent the better half of a decade disconnecting myself from the vessel you conquered before I knew my door was unlocked. I long for the girl who at fifteen loved everything so deeply and brazenly, every touch felt like the first, and every word that you uttered I held onto as if it was the last thing I’d ever hear. You said the lights that night seemed like their purpose was to illuminate the curve from my neck to my chest, I long for the warmth from that lightbulb, I haven’t felt it since that night. I can barely remember the girl you took, I’ve done everything to forget her. 

A tattoo now covers my lungs so I can breathe without the thought of you, foundation thick on my cheeks to cover the red that arises when your face matriculates into my head. Nicotine coats my lips so you’ll never desire to draw near me again. I cut my hair to relieve myself of anything you had tarnished with your touch, and I loved my hair. My skin shed and revealed an exterior you wouldn’t recognize. Does the skin you stole still live among the dust in your mother’s floorboards? When you sweep, can you still feel the remnants of my hands fidgeting, unable to stop, did you think I was nervous, or did you know I was horrified? My eyes don’t gaze into others–instead, they study their form, engrossed in their every move. This time, I’ll be ready, I say. If she saw me today, would she run into my arms, desperate to be held, or would she leave her key at the door? I ache for the woman I know I would’ve become: soft, adoring, and without fear. You pillaged spaces I didn’t know I needed, rooms that remained empty but overflowed with possibility. The rooms are now with chairs to the doors, empty except for the sound of my foot tapping. 

One day, something will accompany my tapping and a symphony of sounds you could never imagine will fill the walls, they will be only for me. I will find her again, in the silhouettes of new bedframes and chairs you’ve never placed a hand on; I know she is never far. I will feel her in my throat when I speak to people you have never met and could never conceptualize. She will fill my lungs when I breathe in the remnants of last night’s love. She will sit beside me in the room you tried to burn and hold my hand as we remove the chair that has barricaded us in all these years. Today, I turned the lights back on, in hopes she can follow the luminosity without fear or hesitation. The sheets are changed and my hands are warm; I will love her like you couldn’t. 

—Anonymous