I remember it
In bits and pieces.

Here and there I catch a sense of
Foreboding.
Of something coming.
Of knowing that
No matter how much I try
No matter how far I go in life,
This will never leave me.

I have been sexually assaulted.
By two different people
In my life.

I was
Nineteen
When I started dating him.

Nineteen and my
First
Boyfriend.

He has red hair and a
Jaded past.
A bad boy with a
Gap-toothed smile.

I was taught
To save myself.
To not have *** with a man
Until I was married.

He showed me
That there is a lot two can get away with
Before marriage.

I thought he loved me.
He told me so just two short weeks into our relationship.

I believed him
Because I had never done this before.

I thought
he would know, wouldn't he?
I suppose
"I love you too."

From there I found that
Love
Had a funny way of
Proving itself.

It was Easter or Christmas
Or some Christian holiday
When he pulled a blanket over us and
Stuck his hand
Down my pants.

His uncle was in the room.
Engaged in a Vikings football game.
His mom and
Sister and
Aunt and
Cousins
Were making cookies
In the kitchen.

I remember the details of the space
I was violated
In a desperate attempt
To forget
The act.

This happened often.
And openly.
In the backseat of his parents car
As they drove us to their home.

In his sister's retired bedroom as I awoke to him
On top of me.
I thought of the jewelry on her old dresser.
How she chose the ones she cared for
And left the rest behind to be
Forgotten.

Years passed with the memory staying in my mind as though it were a song I chose to memorize.

I met her in a bar.
I had known her.
We had flirted.
She stole kisses all night and proudly proclaimed that
I was "here with her!".

I felt safe.
I knew the crowd.
I took care
Of myself.

After threats of renting a hotel for us
I drove her home.
We were laughing.

She lived with her parents.
In the basement.

The upstairs lights promptly shut off
As she drunkenly stepped inside.

She led me to the basement and I turned as the door slammed shut.
Locking her cat outside.
Begging to come in.

My neck
Hurt for weeks.
That's what happens,
I suppose,
When you're caught by the back of your hair and
Tossed
Across a bed.

My head whipped over the side of the sheets and retracted
As she slapped me across the face.

"I like it rough"
She chimed.
I did not.

Casual pleading
Will only get you so far
When you beg
To be let out of this room.
I envied the cat.

I couldn't stop it so I
Took care
Of myself.

Laying empty,
Broken,
And dry
On her sheets
I dreamed I would be allowed
To go home.

Saliva
Can be a lubricant.
Did you know?
Even if it is ripped from your own
Throat.

******* penetrated my lips,
And then,
So much more.

As I staggered out she tossed words
Like
"****"
"Hot"
And
"I'll text to tomorrow"
At my body.

My body
Does not always feel
Like a safe place.

My body
Bruises and
Bleeds and
Weeps.

My body
Shakes
For weeks.

But I
Am not
My body.

And I
Will take care
Of myself.

I need to be locked up,
The noises cost too much.
I get angry,
I wanna punch.
I feel bad.
I need to be locked up.

It's a lot farther than it looks,
baby,
a whole lot farther down.
And if you fall
you'll break your legs,
baby,
if I pushed you
you'd surely drown.
It is a lot harder than it looks,
darling,
acting happy through
your teeth.
It's a whole lot more of
a struggle,
darling,
if you don't first admit
defeat.

... he points his toes
like a swan stretching its neck :
smooth shaved calves in fish-nets
to slip into stiletto heels,
        performance art of a deceptive nymph

... grace on fine-point tips : his gift - gentille lace
Stage lighting and mace
impersonation or personification of feminine beauty
leporine lithely limned
delicate dancer
       it is almost as if floating across water
       he mimicked once more before
some inner mother's nature took over

façade of savored tastes - savoir faire
voila! a star in it's place ...

... It is her face when the night creates a cape
borne with Van Gogh plumes sufficed with self
she paints upon his face : starry nights
sun-flowers, irises covering the welts...
comparably museum worthy, imitation flames
yet like any other canvas
          beneath it could lie disappointment and mistake
          drafts of inspiration, cover-ups of cynicism
          another creature - some creation unlike him
what was before / behind soft curtains / kept behind his in-betweens unseen (*****) stage hands spot light polishing knobs “my name is Job…”
but what if ...
... the truth and what presently others see
Diva or DILF
     to believe or not convincingly
could be / only amateurs who attempt:
moments unfeeling under layers & layers
of blush / trial and errors / sharp contempt
Sunken cheeks of graveyard sheep
Lip syncing nubile twinks insomniacs
Dry shave stubble style…

      would you wipe away Mona Lisa's
      smile so devilish with wicked secret
just to uncover blemished a masterpiece:
an ugly Danish duckling underneath ?

To  prove his swan-lake / a gent

... to evolve from broken eggshells
become a song sung timely
hummed & remembered well
(hells bells and *****)
Drag queens’
priceless history / murals' on passing face
No broken naughts
While performing down his lace
      define yourself, she affirms her mirrors...
The harsh flight of life from the embers,
      happiness pursuant to tender
Fully free with goddess grace,

it is the power of creativity / the spirit's ability
to overcome adversity
the art of divinity - that is
what he is practicing  
                                 This trumpeter
                                 swan in stiletto heels...