The ex-boyfriend didn’t pick up his phone
When the girl called him for a ride
In the middle of the night.
After she told him what had happened,
He said he didn’t like being manipulated
And lied to.
And that she had falsely implied
That something serious had happened.
“You were kissing that guy earlier in the night,”
And it sounds like
“You gave him every indication that you were interested,”
“I know how you are when you’re drunk.”
But it was serious.
Somehow she would be the one to apologize
For making a fuss about it.
To that friend of a friend who loomed over her
In the dark
After everyone else had gone to bed
And slid down her pants
With skin like sandpaper.
And somehow she ended up comforting her rapist:
“Nothing will happen. I am not mad.
It was nice to meet you.”
Ignore that violin being played with a knife.
No one else can hear those ear-piercing wails.
You will lie awake in the dark with your heart beating so loud and so fast
That you can’t even hear yourself over the roar.
You will crawl up someone like ivy,
Winding so tight with cancerous vines made of glass
That you begin to strangle him.
But you can’t stop
Because you would shatter on the concrete.
There will be a balloon in your chest that swells and swells and threatens to pop,
Materializing as a scream,
But it could just as easily deflate,
Forcing you to collapse in on yourself.
You’re not sure which would be preferable –
But you do know that you want something to happen.
You will have to breathe your life from someone else’s lips.
Becoming some cruel, cadaverous distortion of yourself.
Swimming through heavy, suffocating blackness as people on the outside
Shake their heads and
Watch you disintegrate like you’re in a fishbowl.
You bound yourself with rope
To the train tracks.
Because you’re desperate to believe the fallacy that
Sometimes the strongest type of love
Comes out of something tumultuous.