I told you no

you make your way in like a ruthless predator 

opening up, pulling apart 

push and pull.

I remember the waves, the sea with its flow

infiltrate 

then withdraw. I pray for it, wish I was drowning. 

but the heaviness of your body I can’t ignore. 

Stiffness. You draw me in like an animal. Breathing in your chest, a smell of too much work 

insatiable, a rugged manliness, perhaps I smell fear. Sweat

I dig my fingertips deep

dig deep in the skin of your back.

My body revolts, you persist.  

I want to leave my mark, a scar, I want 

to taste your blood bitter like burdock, unbreakable root. 

I press my nails 

red polish into you, I want my story etched on to you 

my fingers tracing their story, my mouth speaking its song 

all over your body, grieving. I want you to never forget. 

My name will be knotted unto your tongue 

a curse. 

I taught my body how to love you, how to shape itself,

to mould, to fit around yours, like sand, moist earth 

accommodating. Smaller, quiet, less perfect; 

And I 

became a rock unmovable, enduring. Starved yet giving. 

you make your way in, my body repels

withdrawing

creature back in its shell, river into source, 

there is no longer space for you here. 

I promised to forget what you did. 

my womb carries the story within, a treasure of mourning 

story whose bones are made of loss. Story whose skin is betrayal. 

In backwards motion

I teach my body to forgive you; cells renewing releasing 

bleeding the mess you left.