9/26/19

I meet a man and write 6 poems about rape.

They are good poems and his were good kisses.

Still,

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.

It’s hard.

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.