Her name is Tiffany.
We met when
our orbits collided
and crash landed,
on a wooden picnic table
in the dead of night.
I saw the world in her eyes—
and she had this spirit about her
that made me want to follow
her with an umbrella
the rest of my days
so she wouldn’t
even be
bothered
by the rain.
I swore, I’d make her believe in h u m a n i t y.
Conversation, spit-balled from her lips like a machine gun
trigger stuck—
we tore through topics
like bullets tear through skin,
I tried my best to keep up.
We dead ended on the subject of children.
She grew silent, pale.
“I should be the mother of twins” she stammered.
I’ve been told I have quite the poker face, but in that moment
I know she saw.
Turning her head as if to answer my unspoken question
“Miscarriage”
she breathed.
I spent the next however long soaking in her story, like a sponge.
I could tell,
she doesn’t do this often.
I have no respect for fathers who stain the honor of father
with a ******'s blood.
For boyfriends who can’t hear the word “No.”
over the sound of their
d e s i r e.
These men painted her the color of smashed hymens.
On her wedding night,
she won’t forget.
She can’t give what’s been stolen.
She finishes.
I exhale—breaking the silence first.
She looks at me, with all the innocence they must have stolen from her,
and i wonder
if she can
hear me
b r e a k
This, is the kind of story you read about.
I had no words to fix her— I couldn’t fix her.
All I knew was I wanted to sear my flesh and
m
e
l
t
into the crevices of her broken self
and convince her
It will be okay.
“I swear, I’ll make you believe in
**h u m a n i t y.”