i hold very still.
his smooth hand
grips my shoulder,
coarse chin hair
scrapes my cheek,
stale coffee breath
hot over my mouth
barely open
to receive a kiss
should it come
and it does.
with it, his fusty taste,
taut lips and small tongue
darting in and out.
he’s panting and i brace,
holding my breath
to make space
inside my lungs,
clenching my jaw,
eyes slit in the dark,
retracting my features.
i want to go home.
his hand is on my neck
and down my top
grabbing at my breast
the other on my ass
his legs around my waist
covetous octopus limbs slither
as i contemplate giving in,
like paralyzed prey,
my mind congesting
with a leaden sadness,
the deep kind.
when i was eight,
i tumbled off the monkey bars,
landing face down in the hot sand,
searing pain through my right arm.
i lay there
in the humid Houston swelter
wishing for my dad,
holding myself
as still as possible,
sand particles clinging to my cheek,
tears slipping across my nose,
collecting in a pool of saliva
at my lips.
he’s touching himself
and whispering “fuck”
sucking at my skin.
i want to be held,
to be wanted so fiercely
but my chest is tightening.
i can’t unwind my arms.
i want to cry.
i miss my dog.
i shouldn’t have come here.
another woman would fuck him.
adults do this.
i need to go home.
breath catches on my throat,
locked up and in,
the words ringing
inside my head
long before i wrest them out
“please stop!”
he jumps back.
we sit in silence.
i recover my top
and hug my legs.
“i’m sorry.”
i hate that i’ve said that,
shriveling further,
face in the hot sand again,
holding down a sob
not because he hurt me,
but for the hollow
in my lungs
where a voice should be,
the great weight
of shame that isn’t mine
to carry!
i tiptoe home,
strip down in the kitchen
with the lights off,
feeling silly as the tears come,
hearing my mom’s voice
how i’m too sensitive,
and i wonder how anyone does it
as i pull on a sweatshirt,
crawl into the dog bed
and sob
into his wiry roan hair.
for once, he holds still
and lets me.
Comments