I'm Used To It
Her face crumples, but she manages to put on a smile, to paste on the carefully constructed mask that she's worn for years. She scratches almost obsessively at the skin beside her thumb nail, scrabbling desperately for control. Her feet shuffle and she shrugs, smiles, but her eyes are not happy eyes. Her eyes are tortured and troubled, untrusting. Her fears have come true and she feels to blame. Everything is always her fault and she knows it; it repeats, a mantra in her foggy mind as she utters the magic words:
"It's okay", and then, quietly as her pain grows and morphs into emptiness and loneliness, "I'm used to it".
What is perhaps the saddest part is that she will never get a chance to become a stranger to this feeling. She will always be able to whisper that phrase in complete truthfulness. It will become truer as she becomes older, as she realizes that the world is not butterflies and roses. She will never find someone that will not smash her apart, because she is flawed and flaws are not accepted in this glass world. That is the truth.
She turns on her heels and once again turns her back on what was once her only hope. She gives up on hope as she has given up so many times before and vows to never let anyone in again. But she will, and she will hand herself over so fully and so completely that you will know upon instant that she is broken. That's just who she is.
She may seem strong, but she is not. She is a woman breaking into girl sized pieces, with no one to glue her back together again.
She wonders sometimes if she's even worth fixing.