DVNT

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.