When we met
and you asked me
what I did all day,
I didn’t say, “Oh, I am a writer.”
to impress you.

Instead, I exposed
my naked heart to you,
where the words,
“Beware of Dog”
are burned.

I am not a little girl
writing love stories
on your forearms
about our dissected frog
in science class,
and it is not my fault
that you closed
your eyes so tight
when you fucked me
(in your kitchen and 
in your bathroom 
from behind)
and you missed the words:
”No one gets out,
alive.”
etched on the backside
of my heart for at least
20 years—
since the day I picked up a pen
and decided to write
with blood and tears
that were not
my own.

I understand that
every time I write about:
how empty I am,
how lonely I am,
how your thighs remind me
of milk,
it feels as if you are
being stripped naked
and doused in ice water,
but I warned you
what was coming
the moment we met—

—and you kept opening my gate
kept ringing my bell,
kept taking your coat off
in the foyer,
kept trying to kiss me long enough
to ease your hand on to my pussy
without looking like a creep.

So, excuse me
if I do not empathize
with your distress
but if you read harder
(past how my words
make you feel)
you’d realize I am feeling
much more than this
(much much more than you)
these days.