You’re afraid to let him under your skin
so you take your clothes off in corridors
lined with artwork, corridors small enough
so he can’t see the way he makes you
moan in pleasure; you throw your clothes
in the corner and knock down canvases,
sweat lining your face like paint strokes.
You are a work of art. You are
swirls of sunrise in your morning coffee.
You are dark lines and every time
you shoved your fist into the wall
and took it out bleeding forgiveness.
You are the triumphs you celebrated
alone and the way you woke up
the morning after you killed yourself.
You are more than just this body and
you are begging to be understood.
But you won’t let him uncover the pain
in your eyes; you look at him like you are
a lioness, but you are writing a story in
invisible ink; you are screaming that you
will never lose your voice between breaths
but the only thing you have to show
for it are the scratches on your back.
He doesn’t look at you when he fucks you–
it’s always from behind and in the dark–
but you don’t mind because he can’t
hear you whisper that maybe he’s the one
because he doesn't make you feel like
a tornado watch; maybe he’s the one
because he makes you forget; maybe
he could love you for what you are:
a skeleton, a body, a sin.
He doesn’t say anything.
He gets off on the idea of forever;
he gets off on the idea that he is able
to blanket your pain, and with
his hands on your neck, he can make
you scream without making a sound.
He doesn’t like you, honey;
he just likes what you do for his ego,
but you hate what he does for yours.
You hate how when he doesn’t touch you
again, you shiver in silence.
You think he is insulting you because
you measure your worth in body counts.
You are so unbelievably beautiful,
but he can’t see it because
you won’t let him
YOU ARE READING
CREATING CONSTELLATIONS
Poésie"We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations. My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellation...
