They used to call me the shoe less poet, because even though my mind was never quite in one place, my thoughts always knew where to fall, and I walked with a steady pace. When I called someone’s bluff they didn’t stuff around and after all was said and done. She had come undone and I was the only one there to listen, so with burdened hearts and heavy lids, she bid me welcome into her bed. I kissed her ripped skin raw, and she saw just how gentle another human being could be but she didn’t see how I could possibly respect her if she said no, because a certain time ago a wolf in hot boys clothing had stolen into her heart, but not before ripping her apart.
He had said, consent is ****.
She was 17 with her heart in her chest and just trying to do her best with the subject of objectification and recommendations from her friends to go for it, when he rounded the corner and saw her and saw that what she was was beautiful.
only two points pretty and three points potential love partner, he’s heard stories of what she’s done and how with a certain touch she comes undone, she came undone under his thumb and now the thing is he doesn’t even know what he’s done, but instead he’s said.
Consent, is ****.
So get on your knees, she doesn’t need another reason to heed her mothers warnings that boys will be boys who will beg and plead and lie, but she’s still trying to come terms with idea that she might actually be worth a second glance, another chance, a single dance. He was never supposed to be anything more than a single pleasure, but he put pressure on her bleeding parts and now part of her feels inclined to decide to let him lie down beside her and hide from the monsters inside.
He said. Consent is ****.
Like her ***** is a wave he can ride until the tide of her mind comes to terms with the lies he’s presented her with. ****, like maybe if you stopped to check, when her thighs opened it was because of his vice grip, when his lips met with hers it wasn’t with love, but lust and he must have been drunk because surely a sober man would know better than to force a 17 year old girl to hurl as he shoved himself inside her, hiding his guilt with the lilt and the tilt of his head and his killer line, “consent is ****.” Baby, it might be, baby it can’t be. Because she’s trying to say no but it’s hard to mutter words when his face is curled into every positive memory about this place, when she has to drink her weight in *** to over come the memories of a misshapen youth, you can bet shes begun to become undone, but it’s not in the right light, her brown hair doesn’t shine in the same way that she has in past and the last thing on her mind was the way you grasped her behind and told her that.
Consent is ****.
Like, maybe if she just said yes she could stop bleeding better yet, make a bet that basically says that she’s useless without his hand to help her stand, perhaps if she just said yes and moaned a little louder it would block out the bleeding passage of herself that is begging and pleading and trying to lead herself to show her true colors, which is red. The shade of shame spread on her bed spread. So when I kiss her wounds and slowly wound her around my wrists, I have to take things slow so that I can’t hurt her and puncture her soul because she’s been mangled tangled around lies and this mistruth that was presented to her when you said.
“Consent. Is. ****.”