Retrocede.

       My father had always told me, "it is better to have others be dependent on you than to be dependent on others.", but the way his smile smirked and his cologne lingered through the atmosphere, I was left sustained by his false endearment.

     
      My mentor had always told me, "One bad, young relationship will leave you insecure and broken for the ones to come." But the way his hair fell so imperfectly and his hands traced the lines of my paper skin, I was breaking willingly before him.   

      My friends had always told me he was no good. That his smile was wicked, his cologne potent, that hair covered the evil that swirled his brown eyes and his hands crinkled my skin with pleasure.

      He had always said he loved me, but he never showed me. He would be there to catch me, but he tripped my feet up. He caused my tears to roll lashes to cheek, but he wiped them before they hit the floor. For months he iced the bruises he caused and pressed flat the crinkles in my skin that he crumbled.

He gave me every reason to leave but never let me go.

     Now, I do not know how to be dependent. I forgot how to trust a smile, and cologne turns the wings of my belly butterflies black.

     Now, I trace my own paper skin trying my best to uncrinkle the insecurities riddled between each line.

     Now, I trip over my own feet. I cry until my tears gloss the pavement. My bruises litter me purple and blue. Some from him. Others from me.

      I've cursed my lungs to exhaustion, just wanting to rewind time. I wish I could go back to the day I met him under that pavilion. I would have kept walking. Kept my head down and my hoodie up. I would have listened to echoes of no's that ricocheted off my head. I wish I could just go back and leave him there.