Morning After


The first time—
it was born from trust.
I wanted your skin,
that ego, your touch.

I remember saying
“Go ahead,”
An eager virgin
A harlequin.

I never felt
much more than pain,
a robbery,
unbuttoning.

Daylight, darkness
Repeat.
Again.
I wandered from back
to stomach,
Again.

You’re angry about blood
on sheets,
but you permanently
emptied me.

You worry about
the look of things,
but forget you stole
my husband’s piece.

How could you, cold
regret a thing?
You got the best,
the whole of me.

I wonder where innocence might be.
how can I get it back?
I pray I haven’t lost myself
in desert woods,
in the furthest ask,
in hollow quiet,
dusty black.

I can’t say it was love
at all.
It was a cold damp fire,
an icy warm.

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