Guilty by own submission.
Everything I once defined myself as, I no longer am. I lost myself to the opposing assumptions, opinions and perspectives of others. Slowly, I morphed into these things I swore I’d never be. Slowly, I lost these bits of me. Eventually, losing myself to the world’s diluted temporary pleasures.
The first time, unfortunately, wasn’t the last. But I knew that before anything even happened. Deep down, as much as I aimed my anger in his direction, I knew I’m just as much at fault as he is. Secretly, I suppose I yearned for this experience. Only after realizing and truly questioning its necessity to acquire . I wish I hadn’t, but I did.
No longer innocent, I was no longer a good girl.
Then again, that hot and humid day in July came with John (whose name really wasn’t John). I thought to myself of my standards, and remembered that I had left those dispersed on the bed next to me, the first time I had done “it”. It was that day I had left my morals to lay there in hopes that another lost soul might come pick them and put them to good use. I abandoned it, them. No longer in association with that of the religion’s practices I once abided by, not too long ago.
I wish I had known John longer and a little better. Differently than the way I’d experienced him that one summer afternoon. I wish he’d known I was different. That I am not as easily persuaded as I had been that day. That night, I went home, showered and cried until the early a.m hours. This of course, after I was able to digest the fact I had indeed become all of what I had sworn I’d never be.
As much as I resent the fact that I never got that chance to say my piece and tell him about myself, I too knew best from experience that no one can trust your words, but can solely rely on your actions. And that day those spoke louder than any words I can ever speak, even in my own defense.