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The serrated edge scrapes across my wrist, but it doesn’t cut. Funny, you’d think that once you’d had cutting in mind you would actually do it…but I’m a chicken. I laugh, rub my forehead with my freehand and look around at my mess of a room. There’s dirty underwear in the corner, week old dirty laundry strewn across the floor and here I am sitting in the same clothes I fell asleep in two nights ago.

I’m fucked. There’s no point in denying that, I’m just seriously majorly screwed.

I can’t hide it anymore


Noah smells like forests and woods, tree’s and sun. When I touch him I see everything beautiful in the world and when he smiles my eyes water.

My roommate doesn’t get it, my fascination with him I mean. She waited for him to leave when I brought him over last week, she raised a perfectly sculpted brow and said, “I thought you said you didn’t like white guys?”

I never told her that though, I told her that I thought white guys had bigger dicks than black guys.

She would know, she’s been around the block three times and back. Ha. Ha. Ha.


He has black hair, it’s really curly, and soft and silky. His hair smells like rain and it tickles my naked skin.

“You sure you wanna do this?”  his voice is throaty, but I like it, it makes me want to pull him closer, shush him and tell him that he thinks too much. My tall and lanky Noah, the boy with the pale skin, roman nose and soft black eyes.

I push his hair off his forehead, he’s overdo for a haircut, and look at his features.  He’s ambiguous, he could be jewish, Hispanic, Italian, it’s hard to tell just by looking at him but he told me when I first met him that he’s mixed.  I told him that if he wasn’t mixed with black then it didn’t matter, he was white in my book through and through. According to him though, he’s Cuban, Italian and Irish.

It’s a heavenly combination, I think this as I caress his cheeks and smile. I rearrange myself on the sofa, sink deeper into  the old smelling cushions on his couch and wrap my arms around his neck, “yeah.”

I want to do this, I really do. I’m 21 and I’ve never done it, I’m ready.

His breathing sounds funny, like he’s dying, but mine is worse.

I can do this, it’s nothing. It’s just sex. But why am I crying?

He doesn’t see the tears; his face is hidden in the groove of my neck, his lips on that sensitive area and his hands in my underwear.

I want to feel him; I want him to make these tears go away because something’s wrong. I’m crying, why am I so emotional?

The whole ordeal is clumsy and longer than it’s supposed to be. It’s dark, moonlight drifts through the blinds in his front room, but I can still see his face, I wonder if my face is too dark to see. I smile at the joke, look at me being racist to myself.

He yanks my yoga pants off, mutters something in Spanish, bella.

I close my eyes and pretend that I don’t feel like I’m being violated. I want this right? I want this. My panties come off next; I feel that strange cold, the feeling of air hitting something that shouldn’t be uncovered often. I’m bare.

I’m bare.

I close my eyes, he coos into my neck, “You ok Liz?”

“I’m fine.”

But I feel the first cut, the deep penetration and I feel like I’m being gutted and I lie that I’m ok. I go along with the show, it feels good, yeah it feel so good, oh my god that spot, but then I can’t lie anymore. It hurts and I cry.

How embarrassing.

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