11 I was

I was

his first girlfriend,

but not his first relationship.

He liked men too,

and I was no one to judge,

a closeted bisexual myself.

But my skin prickled at his words,

that he had never kissed a girl.

He had had boyfriends before,

a long winding, twisting, scavenging

relationship that ended poorly,

yet he wanted to take a chance

at falling in love with me.

My stomach tumbled

with the harmless notion

that sexuality wouldn’t sabotage

a relationship if we truly loved one another.

I was the first to genuinely love him,

but not the center of his devotion.

I would give him more than I knew,

hoping, straining, wishing and begging

to be happy with him

while he left me in the wake of his rage,

his spit filled, unapologetic venom

and his inclination to rob me of my sanity.

I was the first to give him whole-hearted attention

but he would never do the same. 

I would sleep by a stranger that

cursed my name in his sleep,

bit away my safety, incapacitated my security,

and sleep at the foot his bed

like a beaten, lonely dog

when he didn’t want to share our space;

when he wanted my skin to shiver

through winter nights,

bristled by the omens that lingered,

brushing my hair as if to comfort me.

I offered my affection

but he would prefer to poke me with

a thousand-foot rod rather than kiss me.

He preferred my skin black and blue,

red rimmed eyes that reflected his lies,

to cover my heart in scars

that he adored to pass off as art;

bending my bones like twigs.

I was a coloring book to be filled

with his ugly shades and miserable tones,

highlights covered by clothes,

starvation to make his work easier to see.

He preferred to open the wounds,

crushing the scabs under his thumb,

twist my rosy cheeks until whimpering

turned to pitiful, childish

begging that brought no peace, just

vehement retaliation. But I would smile, 

to ease his troubled heart from the guilt

and remorse, to show my genuine, fearless love.

I offered my singing

but he would grimace in time,

muffle my voice with cracked vocal chords,

alibis and strangling fear.

He would prefer I kept crying in solitude,

let it shake away my resolve

for a hobby, an inspiration, a lifeline

until I had but calloused fingers and no will.

I would never be the center

of his lust, but the envy of it.

Stumbling days, finding trails lingering

in his hair, sticky residual reminders

that I was not a boy.

A twisted vindication that maybe

he would have loved me

if I was a man; that one day,

he would admit it with a smile,

and kiss my cheek so gently

that my stomach would lurch

and my body would freeze over pale.

I would never be the center

of his world or his happiness.

My hands that wouldn’t swing

and legs that couldn’t run fast enough

to escape what marked my bones

every moment I bit back. 

He would remind me every morning

how lucky I was that he hadn’t

taken my life in my sleep,

how he enjoyed when I wept,

how much he needed me

because I reminded him to be

a better person, that if I left,

his world would shatter,

he would die--