(S is for) She

Warnings: language warning, lack of editing warning.

She’s not good at taking a hint, is what I’m saying.

She falls fast, falls into the role of helpful little sidekick, there to remind you that you’re worthy or loved, or whatever the hell else you think you need to hear to get you through a dark moment. Your own personal cheerleader, hiding away the gaping wounds because let’s be honest here, most of us don’t give a damn how much blood she loses in our names.

She learned early that nobody wants to hear a word beyond ‘fine, how are you?’ when they bother asking how she is, and she’s taken that lesson to heart even after years of dedicating herself to listening to every inane thought her precious darlings have. You’d think she’d get the idea that one-sided relationships aren’t good ideas, but here we are. Again.

She trusts easy, too easy, and lets go hard. Thinks if she just tries that little bit harder, the obnoxious, banal bullshit can be resolved and life can get back to whatever semblance of normal she’s clearly trying for. So she’ll try, one last time. And another. And another. She’ll give an inch, you’ll take a mile, and she’ll throw in another half-mile just to be sure you’re happy. She’ll throw her neck at the noose because that’s who she is, and she doesn’t know any better than to assume herself less worthy than literally anyone else around her. She’ll beat herself black and blue verbally because no one ever got around to teaching her that it’s not all her fault, that other people can fuck up from time to time, too, and that’s not her burden to carry. That girl was raised to be a sacrificial lamb, and sinners that we are, few of us bother trying to set her free of that.

I mean, look at you. So busy feeling sorry for yourself that you don’t even notice the way she’s breaking from bending so far backwards to accommodate your every whim. But when she’s broken and crying, what do you say to her? Relax. Geez, chill. It’s fine. But tell me, how would you even know?

We’ve all done it. And we’re all gonna burn eternal for it one day, and deserve no less. And she’ll probably pray for mercy for us all.

She’s a weird one, this girl. She used to be angry, then she got kind, and even though the world keeps kicking her hard in the face, she keeps holding out her hand in hopes of doves or butterflies, or whatever ridiculous fucking imagery she’s playing to this week. Over and over, she holds out her hand. Over and over we break it, burn it, bite it, stab it… and still, it’s there. Shaking and infected, but still offered out like if she holds it there long enough someone will stop hitting it and take it, instead. Every so often, if you get out of your own way and watch her for a change, you’ll see she looks down at her hand like she’s surprised she can’t see the damage. Like she’s surprised it’s still there after the beating its taken.

She loves people the way abused dogs love people; full of hope and bruises that never quite heal. Optimism and stitches, and the sort of shaky anxiety that meds can never fully repress. It’s the anxiety that comes from trying, again, knowing you’re about to have the emotional crap kicked out of you- again- and having to stand still and take it anyway.

You can tell yourself you’re different, that you’re not like that, but you’d be a liar. And you’ll make her wear the punishment for your own self-denial.

So tell me, again, that you’re sorry for making her cry.

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