My mother always warned me about the boys whose palms were made of calluses,
And whose hearts held a shield of armor so thick that even the brightest flames couldn’t weaken it.
She always told me that they would string you along and make you feel so full of love and brightness,
That you would become blinded to the truth of what they felt within their heads.
Even though I listened to her, I still found myself trapped by boys who saw my heart and my sexuality as the same thing.
I still wound myself tight around the boys who made my bed smell like ***** and ****,
And I caressed them in the same way mothers do with their children.
But every time I found myself broken again, my mother would tell me to scrub my skin raw and wash away every part of these boys that I let near me.
I had to wash my mouth out with soap every time I let their name slip from my lips, as if it were the dirtiest of curses.
She said I needed to burn every memory of them; literally and figuratively.
I needed to let flames grasp up towards their pictures,
And erase all the messages they sent with hearts and smiles.
My mother told me that she wouldn’t be upset if these boys dragged me in,
Because she had been there too;
Chasing the boys who thought they were men because they had cigarettes dangling from their lips.
She told me that everyone learns from their past lovers how to detoxify their bodies once they leave.
It’s not with water and cucumber mixtures or baths made of roses,
It’s with fists clenched as tears stream down our faces,
It’s with our voices screaming and our hearts beating strong.
When we are broken from these boys, whose mouths are filled with sut,
My mother told me, we fight to build ourselves back up.
We do not suffocate on their weaknesses which they blamed on us.