My father spits the word "martyr" at me in the kitchen. 

He's standing on the same side of the counter as he always is, 

face twisted with mockery, 

and tells me to stop dying for hopeless causes. 

What he means is: Stop being hopeful. 

I don't know how to tell him that I don't know how, it's not in my nature. 

When my father tells me that women benefit from violence so certain in himself I am not surprised.

He is not the first man I have heard these words from. 

I think of being hurt while walking alone one night. 

I am thirteen and I hope I look beautiful—like a pinned butterfly and not gruesome like the photos I've seen on the news. 

I hope that in death I am still poised, still successful in my attempts to be desirable. 

When I am sixteen and certain the world is against me, 

I know that I want to die ugly. 

Breathing in the crisp air of the dimly lit street, I no longer want to be wanted. 

I think of leaving blood everywhere I can. 

My father spits the word "martyr" at me in the kitchen. 

He's standing on the same side of the counter as he always is. 

What he does not understand is that I do not want to be martyred. I do not want to die. 

In the warm afternoon light of the kitchen, I feel as cold as ice.