I am trying to land back in my body

after tired attempts to make things

go away that don’t ever go away

(like ankle scars and memories and

the list of boys I wish I hadn’t

opened myself for). it seems my body

does not want me back. she is in bed

with a boy. she is telling him in naked

conversation that she hates being 

fingered—that it feels like pressing

a bruise—and I watch how he believes her.

he prods that bruise, knows the pain

will put her on her knees. her mouth

is wetter and takes him more easily.

AA

he falls asleep, so she and I head

home. she and I relearn each other’s

sad shapes. from within me

she says, a boy’s insertion is never

to please; it is only to render us

helpless. she says, will you try to keep me

safe. I do not love either of us enough

to mean the promises I make. I get in bed

with that boy again—admire his cruelty,

make sure he meant it. he thumbs

my hip bone like a broken button,

commands my legs to open,

and I wonder: will I ever come

to know how mouths speak?

Macy Perrine