*Just a prenote: This is a poem about my last boyfriend. It is a true story; it is not pleasant nor does it have a happy ending; it is somewhat profane (not really my style), but it is what I feel I needed to say.*
I think about him nearly everyday.
Him, the reason I hate myself;
him, the reason that nothing about me is worth shit anymore.
I’m afraid to get into another relationship
because “I am not a virgin” is not a talk that you have before nineteen,
and worse:
what if this one’s the same way?
I can’t stand to look at myself,
can’t stand to let myself breathe.
Saying no was not enough and I knew it.
I should have stopped him,
done everything in my power to mean no,
to get away.
But he’s not to blame.
I lost my right to say no to him the minute I started taking of my clothes to impress him.
And even though I can’t blame him,
I can’t help but hate him as my mind wanders back to that tool shed that smelled of chicken shit and desperation
and I can almost feel him inside of me all over again
and my body responds with shivers and tremors and tears.
It’s worse at night,
when he’s my last thought and my first dream
and I can literally feel his hands on me,
all over me,
exploring me because it became his right when I allowed him to undress me for his entertainment.
I feel his hands on me and I wake up sweating and kicking and screaming
“stop! You’re gone now! Can’t you leave me alone?”
But I know: I lost my right to being left alone.
I was so close to being pregnant that I can’t even laugh.
I literally cried right there on the bathroom floor when my period started
because it was going to be me.
Sometimes I even do feel pregnant.
I dream about babies a lot–
too much.
Beautiful babies who look everything like me and came out of my ovaries.
Babies who stare me in the face with blank eyes that say
“what the hell mommy?”
I was a slut,
his slut,
there for his viewing pleasure.
If he wanted to fuck me let him fuck me,
it didn’t matter how many times I said no.
It became his right to have me however he wanted, whenever he wanted.
I lost my right to no.
I hated him on my lips, my neck, my breasts, my ass
and I hated that these were no longer mine,
they were his,
parts of me that belonged to him.
I hated him inside of me,
without permission that he didn’t need anyway because I was his right,
because his hands soon became more a part of me than my own breasts,
the breasts on my body that he owned.
Let him slap my ass,
let him grab it an squeeze it.
My ass is what he’s entitled to.
as much his as any of his body
and his right through and through.
Let him put his hands where he wants,
let him take off my clothes as quickly or as slowly as he wants,
let him squeeze my breasts and kiss them if he wants,
my body was his right.
But I deserved it.
It was payback for all of bull shit I put anyone who loved me through.
And if it hurts just shut my mouth and do as he says.
He is only enjoying his right,
what should it matter whether I hurt?
I was made to be felt by him,
to listen to his moans and his
“oh god, do it again bitch, god your ass is so fucking fine,”
there to let him do it all and to clench my teeth, not say a word.
And when I left it was nothing.
He didn’t care.
It was just, “well that bitch is done,”
and “Guess I don’t get her ass anymore”
Not like he had lost anything,
but like I was already burnt out.
A piece of ass that belonged to him so he might as well use it,
but he wasn’t enjoying me anymore, he was just tolerating.
He was tolerating me.
And then it was finally gone,
Thank god.
What did I expect.
I had no right to be missed.
I had no right.
Word Doodles 