I’ve realized I use my “daddy issues” to explain why I do some of the things I do, this no different. It’s not an excuse, just helps show some of my reasoning.
All I really wanted was someone to care about me, to take care of me. I was 17, he was 27.
I should’ve seen something wrong with that picture, but he painted it so beautifully. Like nothing i’d ever seen.
He knew exactly what I needed, knew exactly what to say.
I let myself believe this little fantasy, I had to.
I was 17, he was 27. I didn’t know any better. He did.
I was afraid to go to his apartment alone, but he made me feel like I owed him. I should be able to give at least that much for all he’d done.
It was innocent at first, sincere even.
Until he wanted to show me his bedroom.
I was physically shaking, I could barely stand on my own.
Funny, he didn’t seem to care much anymore.
I’m sobbing now, trying to plead with him to stop.
Funny, he didn’t want to take care of me anymore, only himself.
I submit and stare at the dark ceiling, wishing I was anywhere but there.
Funny how people can put on such a believable show.
I lost a piece of myself that day, and I don’t think i’ll ever be able to find it. He’ll always know, though, and I hope it eats him alive.