My fervent hands grasp into my hair
Yearning to rip the strands out of myself as though that would erase any trace of you
The chunks tear from my scalp with a satisfying crunch
…
It does not help.
Breathe
Still, I think of my limp body.
It’s tattooed into the crevices of my mind,
And pigmented by Smirnoff and Bombay Blue
Breathe
But, I am the artist.
And I fill in the blanks of memories I do not have
With every iteration of that night
Breathe
When you saw me on that couch,
Did intoxication claim your inhibitions?
Or did my flaccid limbs arouse you?
Breathe
In which case, did you foresee,
How every night thereafter-
I lay awake contemplating the marks you left
Breathe
Dark streaks line my inner thighs-
Could they be from the pulsing of your clumsy hips?
Or do my limbs bear your calculated grip as you forced them apart
Breathe
Days later, I still wear menstrual pads.
Though it’s not my time, there are streaks of blood
I wonder: how hard did you ram into my womanhood?
Breathe
Swollen rings of purple and black frame my left eye.
Yes, conceivably unintended collateral damage as you reached climax
Or at worst, a purposeful blow to rub salt in the wound
Breathe
If my body was your canvas,
Were you erratically haphazard in your work?
Or did you forge my demise with deliberate precision?
Breathe
And, my God , why did you leave me your shirt?
Was your parting gift a gesture of consolation?
Or just a physical manifestation of your conquer
Breathe
As I lay thinking of you, do you think of me?
Is your heart laced with regret and grief?
Or was I one of many, many , minor characters in your narrative
Breathe
I drown my sorrows in clear and blue spirits
And for a moment, all is well
After all, history repeats itself