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heather-moonPoems
You Push You push your way into my body—I let you. Not from desire, but resignation. I help you because it’s easier than saying no. He paid for the taxi, I remind myself, as your hands tear through layers not just of clothing, but of me. Dignity. Self-respect. Hope. This time will be different, I tell the girl in me who still wants to believe. But I know. I always know. There will be no message, no tenderness, just another sinking silence. You take my beauty as if it’s owed. You steal my strength as if it’s yours to have. And you leave. You don’t see the waiting room lights, the tremble in my hands, the blood test, the cycle gone wrong, the hormones raging. You’ll never know there was a child—brief, invisible—who would never know your name. And so I choose again to undo what you began. I quiet my womb for the sake of a fleeting moment you barely noticed. A body spent for a two-minute ****** a whispered maybe, a lie. The gods in me—the Durga—have been disrupted. Left raw, untended. My hair is tangled. My eyes don’t shine. And still—you couldn’t look. Not even once. You never told me I was beautiful.
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Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 6:39 PM UTC
You Push
You Push You push your way into my body—I let you. Not from desire, but resignation. I help you because it’s easier than saying no. He paid for the taxi, I remind myself, as your hands tear through layers not just of clothing, but of me. Dignity. Self-respect. Hope. This time will be different, I tell the girl in me who still wants to believe. But I know. I always know. There will be no message, no tenderness, just another sinking silence. You take my beauty as if it’s owed. You steal my strength as if it’s yours to have. And you leave. You don’t see the waiting room lights, the tremble in my hands, the blood test, the cycle gone wrong, the hormones raging. You’ll never know there was a child—brief, invisible—who would never know your name. And so I choose again to undo what you began. I quiet my womb for the sake of a fleeting moment you barely noticed. A body spent for a two-minute ****** a whispered maybe, a lie. The gods in me—the Durga—have been disrupted. Left raw, untended. My hair is tangled. My eyes don’t shine. And still—you couldn’t look. Not even once. You never told me I was beautiful.
heather-moon
Written by
heather-moon
Canadian
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 6:39 PM UTC
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