I meet a man and write 6 poems about rape.
They are good poems and his were good kisses.
it’s a strange way to tell someone you like them, so I don’t.
Trauma makes a strange math of you,
the only thing I know that takes and leaves you being too much.
But isn’t that all I’ve ever been?
Too much tits
too much ass
too much need
too much ache,
I want him to hold me like I’m sacred but what I know is being devoured like an overripe fruit.
The only sex I’ve known has asked me to leave my body,
til I learned to do it before they even asked.
What is consent if I’m not even there?
This is all that i can’t tell him;
these are the instructions I can’t give:
Touch me like I might break.
Trace all my scars,
Let me know there’s enough time for whatever may come.
Be a softness I’ve never known and won’t know what to do with.
Be everything I’ve never known and won’t know how to respond to,
I don’t want to know what I know anymore.
Be somewhere gentle. beautiful.
Let me learn something new.