11 months... 11 months today since the day you let me act a fool in front of everyone for the very first time. I was overwhelmed by my first kiss and cigarette burns but it was almost worth it. 11 months since you took advantage of me; laid me on a bed of cheap sheets and, soaked in perspiration, took something so precious from me I'll never get back. You thought it would make me feel better the next morning and I thought I loved it. Just as I thought I loved you and vice versa. I never listened to no one's warnings because we were just too cool for that.

The dreams I had then were the ones that still haunt me now, as if nothing ever happened, and perhaps I'll wake up in an atmosphere saturated in plain sterile scent, an IV in my arm and you by my side, like I was in a coma and everything is a dream.

That sweet baby boy with your hair and eyes is what really got to me. You made me believe you wanted me and my offspring. On nights momma let you sleep over you filled me with your seed in my desperate and foolish hopes that I'll conceive. He was the final thing I dreamed of before you shattered everything we had.

Everything that was said I took to heart, 8 months of words exchanged, text messages saved; maiden's blood spilled, tears blurring the blue lines of my paper, wanton moans and constant recalling of the past. The caterpillar birthing from its cocoon, a precious gem after hours of mining. Everything grotesque became suddenly exciting, making me feel promiscuous but beautiful to watch my shadow bouncing back and forth on you by candlelight in an empty abandoned house.

Cold nights spent with my face in your chest made a fool of me and never did it occur to me the seriousness of our exchanges. Not once did I consider the possibilities that might happen. You were older and I adsorbed everything you said; the intimate words soakings like blood on a white cloth, leaving its stain forever, a reminder of what was lost and pain triggered by the wound.

Everything inch of me you had seen and I let you in, not only physically but to explore every part of me. With an experienced hand you healed it as efficient as the Phoenix's tears and I cleaned the slate of all your past wrong doings. So why is my blood still on your hands?

I hate asking for pity but it only helps to talk about it. No, it isn't pity I seek but my delicate and bold words of sorrow make it sound as if I am. My throat aches from constant vomiting, a habit I once gave up for you, my eyes water with the memories of things we shared, and my interest damaged. And I have you to thank for it.

They say that one may not know where they are going, but they know where they've been. But me, I know. The only thing to do now is to smile and promote myself. Carry on.

I just wish it were that easy.

And nothing I can do, say, or feel will get me back everything I said that could have been to someone else, someone significant. But it was wasted on you.