Here, I evaporate into the ephemeral. Quick bursts, many contrived ambages, and I am left with the same flimsy excuse. He didn’t know. I couldn’t say. It doesn’t matter… excuses made to match my perfectly invisible frame—or that which I wished to be invisible. Perhaps, if I was, our eyes wouldn’t, in many unavoidable moments, meet in silent discourse. I wouldn't be afraid to recognize that his complacent composure is the antithesis of my… disquietude. Instead I am—here, existing as a sentient form of his past pleasure… my present discomfort. Well, it was more than uncomfortable.

I can smell it more than anything—the hostile assault of viscid, clinging, breath laced with cheap malt liquor… with an insatiable lust for—me. My body. For me. For me? Of all the souls that stand create, I had been elected, in guile. But I did not say “no”.
In fact, I said “wait”. “Slow down”. “Stop”. But never “no”. Perhaps, they are only ever taught to seek out “no”? No. He knew. I could tell. I can tell now.
I protested. The affliction of liquor emerged as the formation of the fornicator—a deplorable intruder…the perverted vulture…the aimless recluse—and it happened. I was…violated. Desecrated. He didn’t even smile.

I was only 15. I was—barely. I was an incomparable friend. But, friendship only hides intent, and my commitment masked his well.
Does he even care?
I know what he cares about. He fetishizes the power of fear. He attempts to possess me, to display me, to stifle my feelings and substitute them with his own. Yet, with this, it still seems that he demands of me to answer:
How does it feel?
And expects me to respond with his responses.

In the hallway, he brushes past me again. Perhaps on purpose. It doesn’t matter.

I coagulated—regained myself there, in that bathroom, in my home, after it all. That bathroom, that night, that story. That story, said to be “fictional”. The scent of the shower’s dense, unmoving, steam. It climbs through empty, recondite cavities in my foundation and brutally fractures my reality. That is where I realized. That is where I realized who he was… and who I lacked to be. I reached my cinereous metamorphosis by means of a single utterance… I did not say “no”.

I sit in silence. I am bound by it. I was sworn to. I was sworn to silence, because I was told I wouldn’t need to think anything about it, wouldn’t have to feel anything about it, didn’t know anything about it, but here we are. Here I sit, thinking and feeling and knowing, while you sit unaware in the same room. The classroom. The “safe space”. You, content and careless while I muddle over the abstruse auxiliary buzz that overtakes my ability to form coherent thoughts. Concepts. A framework for dismissal, but I cannot dismiss that which I have not gained closure in. Yet, I don’t expect any closure from you.

I must expect closure from myself.

I am only 17. I am—barely. Two years, and all that I have to claim as closure are the empty packs of cigarettes that clutter the already cluttered carpet of my car. Light after light after light, and what do I have? I have decimated myself—ravaged, ruined, and dissipated the pieces among friends and lovers.
It repeats.
It repeats.
It repeats.
It repeats in my head.
I see the skin. I see the pain. I see myself. I see myself petrified. I see myself not saying “no”.
If I had only—
No.
No more “ifs”.
Only, “no”.

And now I address you. You. You.
You, who stole me. Isolated me. Forced me to withdraw.
I address you.
I address you and all others like you that don't see “no”…
That don't hear “no”…
That don't accept “no”…
“No” is not always said, but rather felt… understood.
Understand?
No, you don’t.
You probably never will.
But, this is okay. It is okay because, underneath my dismantled exterior, I understand.
I understand that there isn't always a “yes” or a “no”.
I understand that I did not need “no”.
I understand that I just needed a chance—
a chance to…
go.

Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes you can’t go.
But if you cannot go, it will end, and when it ends, you will know.
Perhaps, it doesn’t end in that moment. It didn't end in mine. It ended after days, months, years, of waiting. Brooding. Corroding away and feeling nothing but existing as a barely existent, disassembled part of me.

What was endured was not love—not damn well near as sweet. Love is togetherness. Love is not a forced desire to belong, but an outlet to co-exist. If words and awkward first-love encounters were stripped away, there would just be two—co-existing and maintaining a bond, unbreakable.

So, I thank you for one thing.
I thank you for exposing me to… love. Not love with you. Not love for you. No, never.
Rather, the notion.
I am built from what you did to me.
I am reaching… reaching out from within the fertile, pulsing, confines of the earth, outstretched and, growing, budding, wrapping, clenching on a new purpose. New lovers, new friends… intimacy and complacency.

How does it feel?

I have exorcised you from myself… no more shame… no more. Just “no”.