Ride Home

For the sake of poetry,
you told me what you wanted
 to do to me on a bus full of
 people. 

You pressed your palm 
in between my thighs and kept
 talking while God and forty
 people sat in silence.


I knew it was for the poetry.


Knew you were just saying pretty
things because I’d find a way to
 make them prettier. 

How hard you
 wanted to f**k me, how much 
you loved my hair in your
fists, 

how pretty, how pretty,


how f*****g dirty I am.

I loved you because you knew 
what to do, what to touch, how 
to f**k. 
Because it didn’t feel like giving 
up.


I bit clean through my lip 
trying not to move away from 
you, trying not to want it more,
to always want it more,
but you.


You held onto
 my skirt the whole ride home.