I Promise I’m Sweet

Please don’t let me be rotten inside

TAVI CHHAY

Am I the most tortured girl you’ve ever been with? I’ve felt the touch of a man’s hand on my body more times than I’ve ever heard the words “I love you.” Why did God waste such a gentle heart on such an unfortunate girl?

Were hearts made to be broken over and over again? I absorb all the hurt in the world with this mighty, little heart of mine. It gives me some comfort to think that maybe my heart is stronger than I am. My body remembers everything you put me through. It lives in my bones, in the poison that runs through my veins, and somehow my heart continues beating. When will the day it stops ever come?

I’m like this little sponge for everything that hurts. I soak it all up. I take away the pain so maybe there’s less of it left for everyone else. Maybe that’s what my heart was made for: to hold everything that hurts so there’s nothing left to hurt you.

When you’re so used to being a sexual object, you start to become disconnected from your own body. Sex doesn’t feel like the most intimate act you can do with someone anymore. You crave more than someone wanting your body; you crave someone wanting to know you—to love you.

Everything starts to feel like love—even the things that will eventually kill you. I love the pressure of his sharp teeth sinking into my neck. I love the deep wound that’s left on my body; I’ll keep this memory forever. It hurts so much that it almost feels like he loves me. I feel safe between his teeth. I surrender myself, slowly bleeding to death. I’ve become so accustomed to these cruelties that I barely recognize them anymore. I think that’s how I’ve survived for as long as I have. They say cats have nine lives; I’m definitely on my hundredth. I’m a very tough cookie.

At my core, I am a lustful creature. Sex gives me life; sex is my life. Is my sexuality to blame for my loneliness? Is my need for sex the reason I can’t be loved? Can you turn a whore into a housewife? If all I was ever supposed to be was the mistress, then why are there parts of me that want to be your wife?

I’m whatever you need me to be. I’ll become whatever makes me easiest to love. I cling to any proof that I exist outside of sex. I need to know that I’m good for something other than my skin.

I’m a good little slut with a tender heart. My heart and my body are too delicate for the way I’ve learned to exist. This is the only way I know how to be alive. Everything hurts so much, but I know there are so many ways to love. I find new ways to say “I love you” in everything I give and everything I do. I cry over everything. Everything has sentimental value to me. Everything reminds me of someone, even when I wish it didn’t. I carry everyone I’ve ever met in my heart.

I promise I’m sweet, too.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped dreaming about being someone’s girlfriend, or someone’s wife—about being cured of my pain. Sometimes it just means being objectified in a different way. Too many men have told me about the girls they’ve dated but never truly loved. I guess being someone’s girlfriend isn’t always what I imagined. The only thing worse than hooking up with these men is believing, even for a moment, that they love you. You can be someone’s company, someone’s comfort, someone’s way of not feeling alone—and still never be truly loved. I really want to be able to love myself.