I am suddenly reminded of who I used to be. Other people’s coldness makes me feel like my past is starting to breathe again. My inside turns into a closed box. Inside the box is a smaller version of myself – screaming but without any sound.

Realities clashing. Still no sound. Muted rage. And I’m standing here like a time traveler.

I am reminded of who I used to be in a time where nothing was solid. Not even time itself. Time was broken. There was a glitch in the timeline. And missing pages in a long story.

I am reminded of who I was in that story.

A girl who wanted so much to feel wanted. For all the things she kept inside the box. All the wild and free butterflies of her youth. And the bleeding house inside her chest.

She didn’t know it was a misunderstanding. She was never wanted for those things. Not even for her green eyes. Not for her talent. The nuances of her smile. Not for the depth of her soul. Or the welcoming heart between her legs.

Not even for what she had to give. But for what she was willing to let them steal from her.

Butterfly after butterfly on a plate. Delicate wings with the most delicious taste of innocence. A blood house torn apart by their hunger for more than she had to offer.

When the girl wanted something in return there was nothing but silence and rejections.

Empty faces. Humiliation. Ejaculations.

Frozen leftovers. Dirty plates. Zero butterflies.

I still remember the feeling of being her. The loneliness. The excruciating vulnerability.

Unwanted memories. Unwanted coldness. Toxic words. I don’t want it.

I don’t offer myself on a plate to other people anymore. I don’t have anything to give to people who don’t appriciate me. The memories are fading along with the sense of their frigid love.

I’m not that girl anymore. In a way, I never was. It was just a big misunderstanding.