I’m the guy in Jurassic World who grabbed his margarita before running away from the dinosaurs
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She’s five, and she’s already been claimed.
“You’re mine.” That’s what her mother softly tells her, kissing her hairline and pulling her close. But she happily allows this enveloping warmth.
She’s seven, and once again someone says those words.
“You’re mine.” That’s what the small girl declares across the crayon-littered table after asking if she has a best friend. But she is treated as an equal, so she accepts this declaration.
She’s sixteen, and she’s given herself to another.
“You’re mine.” This is whispered against the hollow of her neck, and she quickly nods her agreement. She offers up a piece of herself that she cannot get back. But she is willing as he kisses her every corner and every edge.
But with time, love can rot.
She’s seventeen, and now she feels owned.
“You’re mine.” This is shouted, and it’s a demand for conformity. Her mother’s voice is no longer soft; it has grown sharp and jagged. It scratches her. It draws blood.
She’s nineteen, and her voice has been stolen.
“You’re mine.” That’s what her friend tells her, the now-grown girl overcome by the coldness that’s seeped into her life. She’s called terrible names before the girl asks if she’s her enemy. After a pause, she fills the void.
She’s twenty, and she’s been robbed of all that she was.
“You’re mine.” That’s what he tells her, voice low as he grips her bruised arm between rough fingers. She tries to shake her head no, but she has no voice to speak, and her body is no longer her own. So she lets this boy take her, hurt her, burn her.
Now she stands in front of a mirror, trying to say the words she’s heard countless times. They’ve been murmured, and they’ve been whispered, and they’ve been shouted, but her mouth is unable to form that simple sentence.
She belonged to everyone but herself.
H.L. // mine (via 451seconds)
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