Content warning: This poem includes descriptions of sexual violence.
I left.
I had enough of you.
I walked out the door, walked outside in the dark.
The air was warm on my skin.
It was quiet without your voice.
The sky was cloudless.
My head was hurting.
My chest was still warm, tight,
ready to defend me.
If I had trusted my uneasy feelings
over your conditional sweetness,
maybe I would have fought.
If I had not believed you,
maybe you and me
would not have happened.
But that’s what I get for being loose,
being fast,
for having wanted you,
even if not in the way
you wanted me.
I went back inside. Laid in the bed next to you,
Your back turned to me,
Your phone brightness high,
Your volume loud.
I was freezing under the blanket.
After a while
of trying to maintain my pride,
I said sorry,
knowing full well
that I wasn’t wrong
for saying no.
But I was wrong.
I did not want you.
You turned around and started on me again.
This time fast.
You had no more patience for me,
for getting me wet,
for waiting for me
to open up to you.
I had been trying to tell you all night,
I would not open for you.
But you forced me open.
I was cracking open on the bed for you
still thinking that this
is maybe how your first time goes.
I struggled, grasped for
the end.
Red all over those white sheets.
You, satisfied next me, sleeping.
I’m still trying to believe it was you, not me, that was wrong.
