The Couch.
Written on March 12, 2021
I threw out the couch where we had our first kiss. I hadn’t realized how much baggage it held until it was gone — taken in the back of a truck to a junkyard. The space feels clearer now, physically and metaphysically. I feel like I can forget you now. Forget what you did to me on that couch.
On that couch was the first time you touched me without my permission. Assuming that I wanted to be groped, that I was ready for your hands to explore me. On that couch was the first time you pinned me down. Assuming that I wouldn’t rather be held or caressed — living out your wildest pornographic fantasies on me.
We were only together for seven months, but I’ve been forced to relive every single trauma you put me through for the past three years. Picking apart moments that I had chosen to ignore and brush aside at the time. You violated me, physically and metaphysically.
From you I learned to never trust a man when he tells you he has your best interests at heart. I learned how hollow an “I love you” can be. I mastered the art of accepting a backhanded compliment. Of accepting that sometimes being second best is enough. You broke me. And it all started on that couch.
The couch where I sat with my family during movie nights. Where I napped after a long day at school. Where I laughed with my sisters and my friends. You tainted it. You left your stench of entitlement all over it and I was the one who was left to scrub that stench away.