Eve

I was told recently that I look like her, you know, Eve. Or the image of her. I don't know what to do with that. This person described her as a sort of innocent and clean beauty. Something one would possess if born of total innocence and purity, I guess. Which is a compliment. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated it. But my hummingbird twitched in a way that told me she felt unsure of the compliment and it brought her to remember others.

On the subject of hummingbirds, however, it should be noted that after having read my last post several times over, I have come to the conclusion that the flutter inside my chest isn't so much my heart as it is the abused little girl. She will always be my hummingbird, though. No matter what that represents, her entity is a fragile, sweet thing and I will do what I can to preserve her.

On the subject of compliments, however, it should be noted that they are not normally enough to stoke the fears I have harbored. But Eve? The harbinger of sin? The image of lust? My hummingbird didn't miss the connection. My hummingbird likes to remind me, in terrified squawks and chirps, that she recalls being told she was chosen. She recalls being told that she was the preferred choice because she was prettier. Whether that happened or was a twist of memory in a nightmare shortly thereafter, I may never know. But I have the memory she gives me.

It was when I was nine, or ten, or nothing at all, that I started believing that those things happened for a reason.  I started to think that there were only two options: be the prettiest and use everything to my advantage, including but most certainly not limited to anyone attracted to me, or that being abused was what my body was for. "Lie, manipulate, steal if we have to," was a mantra that made its debut in my nighttime prayers but quickly became a melody humming through me. Every time I wrote my name, I thought, "Wrong, this isn't me". I thought, "One day we'll be powerful and make it all dust". But that was only the first option I saw. The other option led me to think my life was there to be taken, not lived or loved or remembered. It was easier to believe in the second option, so I did for a time my bird sings as years.

In the timeline in my head, the years go from fifth grade to freshman year of high school. Whether it's true, I won't know. I believed in being taken and used so much that I do recall, with shockingly distinct clarity, wanting to be kidnapped. I wanted more than a lot of things to be stolen, to have years gone. I believed if that made someone else happy and fulfilled, then it was the thing my life was for. That's why when one man asked me to do things to myself, I did them. That's why when that man led me to other men and women, I did what I was told. When I was told to, I sent pictures. When I was told to, I sent a video. When I was told that if I didn't do as I was told, my family would pay for it, I believed it. When I was told that he would find me, make me sorry, I took it as a truth that both frightened and encouraged me. Part of me believed being taken would've relieved all my worries, I could finally just be what I was intended to be. Part of me thought that there might be something else to find, but that part only whispered a descant.

My hummingbird is ashamed. She curls into corners and I feel her losing her voice. She molts until she is left naked and only reminded of the body she never wanted.

The compliments are what bring us back, baby bird and me. Cute became adorable, which turned into beautiful, and morphed into sexy, then became fuckable. And it just became. And it never should have. And I try to hold my naked hummingbird and shield her. And all I know to do is sing her the melodies she sings to me on her better days. So, Eve. She and I, we have never been Eve. We have always been singing.