Between Bruises & Blooms

I wonder
if you laughed
when you said it.

If your friends did.

If there were beers
in your hands,
music playing,
someone slapping you
on the shoulder
like you had said
something clever.

Just wanted
to get my dick wet.

Such a small sentence
for everything
I thought we were.

I had given you
parts of myself
I did not hand
to strangers.

My body.

My trust.

My history.

The soft places
I kept hidden
because other hands
had already taught me
what happens
when tenderness
lands with the wrong person.

And somewhere
among your friends,

I became
a punchline.

Not the woman
who slept beside you.

Not the woman
who loved you
through things
she should have
run from.

Not the woman
who learned
the weather
of your anger
and still tried
to build a home
inside it.

Just somewhere
to put your dick.

God.

I wish
I could go back
and tell her.

The woman
who thought
your hands
meant love.

I would take
her face
between mine
and say—

Baby,

he is telling them
exactly
what you are to him.

Believe him.

Before you spend
another night
mistaking being wanted

for being loved.