He drew a figure eight on my spine, absentmindedly,
and traced the nape of my neck with his fingertip when he said,
“You are beautiful to me.”
But the ellipsis in the silence spoke louder than he did, and the look in his eye was not born because I was lovely;
It was not because he loved me.
A thing too small for love-
But far too large to be lust;
Simple. Ugly.
He looked at me like he was hungry.
So sweetly he critiqued each curve, every line, blurring my edges with the images of every bent perception pulled from the mire of his mind;
and I
could not
satisfy
Pretty innocence diminished in the grip of his vice,
Pressed tight against my body, despised in dark eyes.
I am not the inhuman creatures you contrived in the middle of the night.
I am not the feminine expression of your goddamned pride.
What a wicked crime,
to take a woman’s body and leave the woman behind.