Secret Keeper

So far two people have the misfortune of being my secret keeper.
         So far two people have been horribly lied to and have seen the worst possible side of me.
         I’m not in a hurry to add on to that list, trust me.  Right now I feel like a cat that’s fucking with a mouse, keeping it guessing and hoping for life but killing it in the end.  Boys are so easy to manipulate.  They let their dicks make decisions and fall asleep directly afterwards.  The girl is the one that stays awake and wishes she had never given him what he wanted.  Wondering when the day would come where boys mean she’s protected. 
         I guess there comes a time when the girl decides to be in charge, to let the boy believe she wants to be his soul mate, his housewife, his easy fuck.  Maybe this is my time for change.  Maybe he will be the only one to ever get me.  Cobras, boys in uniform, fucking someone who NEEDS it almost as much as they NEED you.  Feeling completely powerless afterwards because you gave them what they want and now you don’t have control.
         I think I’ve been described best by my soon to be ex-husband at the ripe age of eighteen.  The softest skin he’s ever felt.  The best fuck he’s ever had.  The worst wife a man could have.  The best liar he’s ever met.  There’s something about me that no one else has.  The ability to make any guy obsess over me.  It’s a gift and a CURSE you know.  Because they all want to marry you and you actually end up throwing your life away for OBSESSION.
         I never want to be like everyone else.  I never want to blend into humanity and just be another forgotten corpse in the cemetery.  When I die, I die, but when I’m living I don’t want to already be DEAD.  You can always tell the normal people from the extraordinary.  The man across from me is talking to himself.  The woman behind him is supposed to be studying anesthesiology but is shopping online instead.  Their lives are a mystery to me, but I’m sure I could guess them with the few sentences that they would speak to me. 
         The girl two tables down is writing in her journal; I see deep scars on her arm and know that one day she will slit her wrists in a smooth, straight line from her wrist to her elbow.  For the first few seconds she’ll finally feel relief from every wrong done to her as she feels the warm, comforting liquid rushing down her skin.  Then she will start to panic when she realizes she can’t stop it.  She finally did what she had always longed to do and now she would give anything to take it back.  In those moments she will feel a fear like she’s never known, because despite how assured people are of their religion, they don’t have a fucking clue what awaits them after a shitty, meaningless life.  When she’s found, her surviving family will begrudge her the mess she left them to deal with; the blood that seeped into every crevice of the bathroom.