Of all the insults I wish I could spit your way, I'm sure my words would utterly pale in comparison to the multi-syllabic sea stuck in my stomach. Of all the things I wish I could throw with a vehement velocity, I'm sure none of them would shatter you the way I feel so incredibly broken. Of all the words I don't have and of all the damage I wish I could do, you will always have the upper hand...because sometimes, I feel like you won.

I am unapologetically arrogant, so admitting my emotional defeat is not something I proudly wear. In fact, I stuff it so far down my jean pockets that it makes it through the wash cycle six times before I find its little fuzzy remnants. As strong and confident as I am, I'm not...at least not all of the time. Because once upon time, you hurt me worse than you will ever know and the bones you sewed into my closet walls still rattle and the words you inscribed on my temples still ring.

I feel defeated. After years of progress, growth, self discovery, and significantly stepping up my Instagram game, I still feel like I'm 14. Every time I look in the mirror before a date and think "damn I look good," your bitter reminders of my inconsequence flood right back in. Every time I look at my thighs and slyly think "large but in charge," I feel your hands around them and remember their flaws. I am in a constant and continual war with a body that carries a soul I am proud to say is me. So after seven years of ups and downs, tears and grieving, secrets and shame, beauty and love, I'm here to quiet the demons once more.

I hate that you interfere with me finding love. Despite the affirming words and awe filled glances of a man who loves my mind more than my bra size, I shrug off his affection as obligation. I hate that there are days he will likely have to hold my hand as I throw up feelings I didn't know I still had. I hate that he will capture every tear and every stutter and place them in jars labeled "it's not your fault" but he'll feel like it is. I hate that I can't even hate you. As if all the choking emotion that filled my throat with bile like 21st birthdays gone wrong has suddenly evaporated. Of all the things I feel so completely frustrated to still feel, my story is not done.

Unfortunately, I will likely always walk in the shadow of you humiliating my fragile sense of worth; yet, I refuse to always be a slave to someone who has long forgot the sound of my voice. Although I will be so overwhelmed by the weight of you that I can't will my legs to get out of bed, I am seven years stronger. My bones have been forged with silent tears that turned to erupting laughter, my fingers have been scarred from replaying memories that my heart can't calm but my mind has learned to soothe. I am not "insert victim slogan here," I am not "another round of therapy," I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

I am a student of life, a seeker of truth, a follower of love. I am staying up too late to finish the movie and I am hella overly poetic when writing...but it's me. So to the man that has made it far too hard to sleep tonight, until next time. I don't kid myself, you will surely always be around in some capacity; but for tonight, I'm choosing peace. Never an easy choice but always the right one. You do not own this vessel I call home, you are simply a memory I carry in my pocket. Sooner or later you'll go through the wash enough times that only fuzzy little remnants remain.