Free For A Day

I was sixteen when I read a story that led me to finding the Deep Underground. Boy met girl on a poetry site, met in person unknowingly, and they'd sling blues like they were fucking even before the first kiss happened. I said to my writer-wannabe self, "I want that. I want that."

My life lacks passion. I am stuck in what Sylvia called the Bell Jar and they said sad girls like me end up dead. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be free so I took thepositivelydark and hit the keys like I've always wanted. I thought I'm going to be free.

But my dad was conservative, grandma's conservative, hell, my whole country's conservative. Traditions can be beautiful, they can be stifling. And if I were free I'd be inked with poetry all over my body and I won't be here typing this confession of sorts, a dream, a desire.

See, if I were free I wouldn't wish that I did, that I'm doing the "stupid" things girls like me did. They seemed fun. And I already have my regrets. Should I have kissed him? The other one, should I have sent him a picture of my tits while he's probably making out with another girl?

It seemed like the only love I can get is online. I am invisible in reality. Here, I am cherished and maybe the insecure little girl who probably has daddy issues loves that. He said I'm a homewrecker in fantasies but he can give nothing. He jacked off to my picture while his wife and kids are out. These people said they love me. Yet no one held me, no one kissed me.

I am the manic-depressive pixie dream girl. I am the medicated nightmare. Right now I hate the keys, they aren't fast enough, I hate my fingers. I think other than writing, they're best when I'm pleasuring myself and typing out bigger O's. Or maybe when praying.

Why did I write this, call myself a virgin whore? I am locked, I am hidden, I am bound. And oh the things that I would do if I were free. I'd kiss who strikes my fancy, and grope, and touch, and sweat and fuck, FUCK, FUCK. I'd dance and shout and drink and fuck. I have the drugs, the rock and roll, and no sex.

Sometimes I think to myself that one of my meds is a consolation prize. They get me high. You get drugs somewhere, mine's legal with a reliable supplier. Once, I am suicidal, I dreamed of my blood dripping everywhere like I always do, but I took four pills and chased them down with red wine. I'm still alive. I didn't wan't to die a virgin anyway, desperation says I shouldn't kill myself until I lost my v-card. I just hope the one who takes it wouldn't freak out about my scars.

The hypomanic is hypersexual. The teenager is hormonal. Horny. I am all of that. To seduce, to be seduced, oh how I want to play. If I were free for a day, just free for a day. If they saw beyond my nun-like face and see the hellcat inside, if they knew me, maybe I'd finally live. Maybe I'd finally die. I confess. Who'll read this anyway?