Your Pain

His lips,

Traced the stretch marks on my inner thighs.

I didn’t want him to know,

That of the 3 cores women hold,

All of them were melting.

I looked away,

Then I looked back,

And saw him focused on tracing his tongue,

Over and back,

Over and back,

Thighs the kids had said looked too fat,

Years ago, in a playground that barely exists anymore.

I couldn’t take it the way other girls can,

Seeing someone treat my body with a tenderness,

That competed with the hate for space,

Space which I never knew existed,

Until his tongue touched it.

My mind lashed out against itself,

As his fingers climbed up to my chest,

His head bobbing at the apex,

The curve where, at least then, his breath revived,

Something I had not known was dead.

I am still afraid of being seen.

It’s easier to be tasted, to have a slick sheen of sweat taken from the surface of my skin,

Than to begin a conversation about why love hurt, then.

I thought I was hiding it.

But I was bare, and it was raw.

He saw the wound and the light,

Knew where he could get in,

And turn magic into a sin.

I loved the breadth of him,

I drank us in.

Became consumed and lost and thin,

Like I always wanted, I suppose.

And in the end, he would leave.

Spent, afterwards,

And I spent, afterwards,

A year calling him back in,

To try to fill the gap,

Left in cold sheets,

With ghosts of moans.

Before I realised,

It was his pain he was pouring in.

Published by LughLana

Hey there. My name is Ash. Whenever I feel lost or confused, I write. This blog is a project in releasing the poetry I would have kept locked up inside, otherwise. It's pronounced 'LOU-lah-NA.' Enjoy your visit!

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