The coldness of emotions

your hands

You called me perfect, as you put your hand up under my yellow sundress.
The same dress you gave me as a birthday present when I turned fifteen years old.

You called me perfect, as you put your wet kisses on my pink lips.
The same pair of lips wearing the lipgloss, that you bought to me when I graduated High School with B+'s in all of my exams.

You called me perfect, as you opened the belt that held up your pants.
The same pair of pants that you wore the very first time, we took a walk in the park with all of the magnolia trees. 

You called me perfect, as you pulled my mint green panties to the side, so you could put your finger in my vagina.
The same pair of underwear I was wearing when I was thirteen years old, and got my period for the first time.

You called me perfect, as you opened your black bedroom drawer to find a condom.
The same bedroom drawer that I helped paint when the sun was at it's highest a warm summer day in June month.

You called me perfect, as you pulled down your pants to put the condom on your erected penis.
The same condom you bought that time we took a quick trip to Walmart.

You called me perfect, as you dried away the tears that escaped my eyes.
The same eyes which eyelids, I had spent an hour putting on red eyeshadow, because you once told me it was your favorite color.

You called me perfect, as you bumped your member into my abdomen.
The same abdomen that has never received love from someone I gave permission.

You called me perfect, as you raped me.
. . . . .