He plays my mouth like an instrument as I think about what he could do to my insides. He’s got big dreams and no promises, but I don’t mind, I kiss him in an alley anyway and don’t ask for a call in the morning. Three weeks later, when he says “hi” on the street, I smile kindly and hope my giggle will cover up me not recognizing his face.
When we run into each other at a party the next week, he composes a poem in front of me. “Your intelligence, your beauty, your charm,” he moans. I laugh. He does not join me. “You are exactly what I want,” he says, his face cut from stone. I say nothing about us only having one conversation. I say nothing about feeling no connection to the “you” he thinks I am. I smile, hoping that it is a grin he’d expect me to wear.
I wonder what he will do when he touches me and comes across one of my cracks. If my intelligence, my beauty, my charm can swallow up my fire for long enough to not burn him. He leans into my ear and whispers, “I’d love to show you my room.” I smile and say, “Give me a second,” then excuse my self to the bathroom. There, sitting on the closed toilet seat, I rip my stomach open and shove my dark deep into myself. When I return to him, I have a fresh face of makeup and a still-bleeding scar on my stomach that threatens to give me away. Still, I say: “Shall we?”
He undresses me in his childhood bed, throwing off my jacket, my pants, my shirt. When he sees my battle wound, I cringe. He says nothing, but gets up, his pants falling to the ground, and grabs a hammer off of his desk. With it, he pounds at my cracked glass, until he pulls my dark out and throws it on the ground, on top of my underwear. I bleed all over his sheets and in the morning, leave before he can reprimand me. I almost leave my dark behind, but grab it, telling myself that I don’t want him to know that much about me. When I get home, I gingerly tuck it back into myself and say, Well, where else would it go?
When another boy tells me that he doesn’t want me until I’m whole, my hand goes to the gaping hole in my chest. I think about whether I can endure being torn apart again to get into his bed. He says, Look, you’re great, but you gotta do something about those holes. No, I say, surprising myself. I don’t have enough blood to cut myself open for you. Because if you only want me when I’m whole, then you’re not going to care for my soul."
Lena Dunham, in an interview with The Guardian (x)
This is fucked up but real life