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The Architect


Who provided me the bricks I built this fortress with? Who is the architect of this bastille around me, with no moat to be seen. Spending months yearning for an escape route, begging to understand how it’s come to this. When did I become cold? When did I become so hard to know? How did I become the person that gets nauseous seeing engagement pictures, feeling bitter towards those that have found love? Mocking the basic pictures of a beautiful hand that could never be mine, due to the bloody stumps that lie at the end of my fingers.



Was it you, first love? The first guy that made my heart jump. The one that first made me believe that true love existed in soft rock and mayday parade lyrics. The one that made my hands sweaty, and that created the story of ever after in my head. Who opened this world of "love" to me. The one that in the daylight stood by my side when I first learned what breaking is, and who viciously reminded me that ITS NOT YOUR FAULT. And the same one that in the dark challenged my "NO", who pushed my first elastic boundaries, who continued the belief that I exist for men. That reinforced those unfamiliar hands that touched me as a child. Reminded me That I am here to please men, to be perfect, to hold them and guide them, and be that nurturing figure that I NEVER HAD. Do you know how fucking confusing that was for a 16 year old? To be raped by your first love, the one that was your everything, and blatantly became your nothing in one push, one grab, and one moment. 



Was it you, mom? Who doesn't believe the lies she tells herself. Who provided me a space I was supposed to feel unconditional love, yet only learned how to not love myself. A place where my words didn't matter, my emotions were unimportant, and my heart had no voice. A place where a nurturing touch didn't exist, and I never believed that my mother loved me. The mother that sprouted in consistent pain from her own mother, and who tried so hard to avoid living her childhood nightmare… so in turn turned off the parts of her heart that were meant for me. It wasn’t her fault.



Or was it you, my moon? The one that still haunts every date? Every physical touch? Every fucking love song. The one that continually pulled me close and then threw me to the ground. Who licked the wounds and gashes that he himself formed? The one that for 6 years tried to teach me that I AM NOT ENOUGH. The one that reinforced the love I have always been searching for. But instead of building it you did it by creating a virtual reality where I could never do anything right, and the eggshells I walked on around you cut my feet to bloody shreds. The one that attempted to tell me that every man wanted to fuck me, but that he was different. The one that instilled the deepest fear I have ever felt from another human, who taunts my dreams, haunting me. The one that has taken years to strip from my fingers, and wrench from my roots. That’s what abuse does, it roots in you, breathing flames into your heart, attempting to love and hate you all at the same time. Breaking you slowly, leaving you in the dust picking your pieces up wondering where the hell you went wrong.



Or could it be the other bunch of men that sputtered, "I love you". Yet, never knowing your You. Without understanding. Without accepting. While controlling and flattening me into your expectations. Your pedestal you locked me to. A pedestal with impervious standards. Hoops to jump through and no direction given. Masks plastered to my face without my agreement. Hands woven into mine, while I scrape mine out of yours. A costume created without my consent. A building I was expected to both live in beautifully and then jump off of without making a mess. That fell in love with what I represented to them. Their broken pieces begging me not to go. Lashing down on me, pinning me to the wall, because I was theirs, and they didn’t know what  love was either (how to let go).



Or is it me? Am I the architect? Am I making the choice to not build a door or even a window. Have I become the cement between the cracks? Am I the one reinforcing the belief that men’s insecurities are my fault, that the pain in the world is my own projected forward. Am I the one pumping the rhythm of toxicity into my blood, creating a shield to forever hide behind. Keeping everyone just a few steps away, and a few steps behind me.



Yes I will tell you…let’s date, let’s kiss, let’s drink, eat, and be merry. BUT DO NOT HOLD ME. DO NOT BE THERE FOR ME. DO NOT SLEEP NEXT TO ME. DO NOT LOVE ME BECAUSE YOU WILL BREAK. AND I WILL FOREVER REMEMBER THAT THE PAIN IN THIS WORLD IS MY FAULT.



Who can I blame? Hiding behind this shield of fear. At the end of the day I’ve considered love a weakness, a broken piece of myself and I’m terrified of it.



I want to spiral with others, recurve this story of mine with gold pieces. Rebuild this toxic theory with new evidence. The unknown lying ahead, but knowing that never again will I share my sorry’s for not loving you how you want, nor apologize for over-loving, or push myself into a hole of lies that you or I tell myself. For now, I will only be bound by the things I choose, and I’ve finally realized it’s my fucking choice to choose.

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