atri poetry

when i heard

'i love you'

stumble from your lips

i expected it to be coupled with

legs forced to open in bloom like flowers before the spring,

forced fingers through doors

i thought had been locked

when you said 'i love you'

i expected to be undressed like a doll

and silent as though i was one,

until my cord pulled

and my spine arched

and unwillingly let out a moan

that you'd find satisfactory

you see,

I expected anything other than you

so i compared it to what i did know

or what i thought i did

and wondered what i had done wrong

not what they had done

for love had been marked by wandering hands

that they have 'no control of'

love was temptation and lust

love was fucking instead of talking

love was keeping this 'between you and me'

love was for the bedroom and not for the outside world

love was different to how the fairy tales portrayed it

the love that i knew

made me wonder if

the light did not hit my skin in a way that your wandering hands found tempting

if the curves of my body did not follow the trend you desired

if my bones did not protrude enough for your hands to grab ahold of

i pleaded for them to tell me

what they had that i don't

so i may practice

over and over

until i get at least one thing right

because i had never known a love like yours

and that was the scariest part of all

because you see,

i didn't expect a light in a tunnel

so i closed my eyes

scared of being blinded after all these years in darkness

instead of realising the beauty of being able to see

As I laid, not even just amongst your dirty sheets

as I spread open like a flower bud in spring,

but instead on the rough fabric of folded down car seats

your hazel green eyes gleamed with hunger

as if I was a human sacrifice to your lust

as you licked your lips ready for your next meal.

I squeezed my eyes shut as my muscles tensed

I never said no, but I also never said yes.

You took my silence for permission

and ignored the oceans that leaked from my eyes,

as the thickness of the darkness engulfed my cries.

My psychologist has told me that the choppy memories

and flickers of pain is my attempt to block out the trauma

that you left behind in the form of a human washcloth,

used and disposed of.

But I know you didn't think you did anything wrong

and I know you say you have changed

but after you, the salty sting reminder that these wounds never leave

comes in the form of tears and tremors that wrack my body

as soon as he touches me where I know your hands have been.

However I feel as though the past repeats itself,

as I eventually find those hungry eyes,

swimming with lust, in each person my heart opens to.

I have since learnt to say no,

even to those I love,

even to their excuses and ploys

as they attempt to squeeze their hands down the waistband of my jeans,

just as you did,

and as they rush to rip away the fabric that covers my flesh.

You see, my body is a disposed of garment,

my anxieties spilled out like unravelled seams and loose buttons

and I had hoped that each and every one of those boys

were a needle and thread,

for I hoped their love could sew back the pieces of me

that had torn a part in the process.

But they have merely drawn blood from my fingertip,

from the prick of their needles

the scarlet rich against my ivory flesh…

I guess I forgot that sewing was the women’s job.