A place no one is chosen to be born into, that feeds and starves, strengthens and breaks, every child. Adult. Person, that enters it.
It is the black hole that encompasses every inch of ones’ life, dictates and destroys every inch of ones morals, and conquers and infiltrates every inch of ones’ self.
A self that becomes numbed in their senses, their thoughts, their reasoning so that they can swallow every opinion, idea, every slander, piece of hate, every demoralizing concept that is portrayed through the most damaging, hurtful word known to peoplekind.
My name is Eliza, eight years old.
Today, I told my mum I liked a girl in the same grade and asked why it has to be husband and wife.
She slapped me and screamed at my father that I was doomed to be unable to live up to society’s expectations.
Expectations for me to hold my name that I want to shout is my name close to my heart and never utter, Jimmy. Expectations so unfairly built have crushed my esteem, my self into nothing but powder as my heart, mind, soul cries out, “CALL ME HE” and society, the ever present serpent of demise, overrides my inner voice with, “Martha. Martha. Martha!” She, her, daughter, girl.
Words used to keep me “normal”. Words that cut deep into me, making ME want to cut deep into me to quiet that ache inside.
And I write my name, K. A. Y. in the blood that pools around my wrists as I solidify the pools of sorrow in my heart in a kind of sacrificial plea against this disgusting society that raised the man who raped me.
Telling him that he’s right and I’m wrong even though I! Am the Victim and yet these societal conventions say otherwise.
“She was asking for it.”
Whore, slut, skank.
“You shouldn’t have gone out I such a skimpy outfit.”
As if it was all all on me.
As if I was at fault.
As if society was blaming a crime as heinous as it was on a victim who lost everything upon revealing what happened in hopes for retribution instead of hiding it away and faking that I’m “okay” and not capable of such complicated emotions as depression, anxiety or self-hate for an act done to me.
And instead upon me society placed a curse, a punishment for its own expectations remaining unfulfilled for me to find retribution for something I was being unfairly blamed for.
And there I walked down the halls of my highschool, one aptly named John Smith, with my hands in my pockets and a fake smile on my face as the eyes of society threatened me as it did all others only to offer me the support I craved, wanted, needed, when it was too late.
And I closed the door outside one last time, never to return to anything again as I found solace in the emptiness of death.
Abominations, some churches would say.
Wrong choices, some parents would grieve.
Abnormal, some out-of-date hate-seekers would slander.
And out of it all there is only one word that this all exists within.
The place where, if I had a choice, would reflect the kindest of hearts instead of the wretchedest of souls.
Here, have some Rivaille on your dash.
Don’t mind me just getting familiar with Sir Ravioli.
MIKASA SORRY I’M LATE I FOUND A SWIMMING GUY—