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Usha's Prison:

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So it's not 100% done, but I'm just going to put it up anyways.

 

Rub your nails down my sides, feel me; I’ll moan a little. Kiss my neck gently, bite, give a little tug. Bite harder, I’ll bleed, moan louder, want you. Slide off my shirt, I’ll take yours. Slide your hand under my bra, onto my boob, grab, squeeze; I’ll bite my lip. Undo my pants, I’ll let you slide. Slip them off, same to you. Rub me through my underwear, I’ll bite harder. Tie me up, I’ll smile. Slip down my underwear and ditch yours, I get exicted. Stick your penis in me, I moan with enjoyment. But when I say no, I mean it. When I say no, I mean it. Sometimes it doesn’t work that way. When I don’t want it, by God, I don’t want it. You listen, you don’t force yourself upon me, shoving me into a corner, and rape me. That’s just not right. You say you are sorry, you say you know I wanted it, deep down, somewhere. And you may be right, but not then, and not now. I never want to see your face again. Touch me, you are going to jail. You think a girl my age would know better than to mess around with a 32 year old, yeah right. We want it, sex. It is great, especially when it is with an older man with a big cock. Let me refrase that, older boy. Boy’s will always be boys. When they have sex, that is what they want. Every minute of every day, and there is nothing you can do when you give it up. They think once means all the time. One mistake is enough for me. One mistake is enough. 

Herpes. You think it’s a lie. You think it doesn’t exsit. Until you get it. It’s like getting pregnant, you don’t think it really happens until it happens to you. Now put those two together and what do you get? A child being brought unto this harsh world, with herpes. Ouch. Try being the mother of that, trying to explain to your child why they can’t go off and have sex like normal teenagers, why they have to take pills to keep the evidence hidden, and why it will be even harder to find someone who will love you for you, plus your herpes. My child will never be defined by my faults. My beautiful child will be better than ever, wonderful in everyway. That will be my child. My mom is trying to help, she is trying.; she is failing. She wants to get me into my own place, have me live alone and sort out all of my problems. She is going to pay for my apartment until I am old enough to get a job. 15 and Pregnant. Not as fun as it sounds, if it sounds fun at all. I always wanted to have a child, and a wonderful life. Herpes+Child+No love= failure. Nobody will admit it to me, no one has the balls to tell me my life is screwed. I will refuse to let my child live this way. I will revive my life, and let him/her live her’s to the fullest extent. I won’t let them down. I’m be sure of it. I will be sure of it.

Seven months in. Two months left. I’m on the dark side of town, alone. When I wake up every morning, I crave coffee. This morning, I gave in. I walked down to the coffee shop, Schooters Morning Meal, best coffee around. I treat myself to a creamy, sugary coffee with an ounce of expresso, to get me going. I’m going out looking for a cheep place to get baby supplies. Most people have babyshowers, I have myself and my mom. My dad is in Mexico, “Studying life,” my mom says, when really, he is with his business partner, Susanna. Who knows what they are doing, nothing more than what they did when they were in his office, and I was stuck in the closet. I heard it, I smelled it, I hated it. My mom needs to know, but she wouldn’t believe me. She never does. My brother is in Iraq, fighting his brains out for this fucked up excuse of a country. I miss him. He made me feel at home. But interupting my thoughts the waiter askes if I’m ready for the check. I nod. I sign my name at the bottom and hand her the check and the cash. I get up and walk out of the coffee shop awake and happy. Awake and happy.

I pull out my phone and make a call. This call is intended for my mom, to tell her I will be by to pick up the rest of my things. Who do I call? Mandy. Old friend, haven’t spoken since the incident. She hates me. She answers. I hang up. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ignore it, it will go away. Ring. Ring. Ring. I answer. She hangs up. What now? I don’t like this. I don’t miss her. Maybe she will forget it ever happened, I will. Forget. Forget. While forgetting I bump into a guy who looks about the age of 17. He is cute, but has his arms wrapped around a young female of my age. I wish he bumped into me, while wrapped in the arms of another man, jealous. Jealous. I’d love to see that. Love.

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