It's Late

A poem about the time.

It's late,
And you asked me for exactly what I'd give to you
No matter how many times you'd ask:
Anything.
A touch, a taste, a sound, a smell;
Love, lust; my hands, my mouth.
You ask if this is ok, and I ask if it ever hasn't been;
You remind me that this is called consent,
Something that few people in a similar situation have reminded me.
You ask me if I'm ok,
Say that I'm shaking,
And I want to tell you that it's because I remember:
I remember the hands, the mouths, the bodies that have been on mine.
I remember clearly their faces, their voices as they reminded me that
I wanted it (it took me years to understand that you don't
Remind someone of something that they never knew).
I remember all of the times that I've done this before,
And how I was never asked if this was ok--
I was never reminded; I was told.
But you aren't those boys, and
I don't want you to see yourself as someone whom
I see as comparable in any way to them,
So I'm shaking because I'm insecure.
And I am insecure, so you believe it.

It's late,
And your waist is trim and taut, and good to hold.
There's nothing that I'd rather do than hold you in this moment;
There's nothing that I'd rather do all night.
You've fallen asleep, but your heart is still racing,
And it's pleasantly loud in my ear.
We've liked that, we humans, since conception.
I think that I hear the door opening downstairs,
Someone walking across the hardwood flooring,
But there are many sounds here--
Insects outside of the open window,
Your heartbeat, your warm breath on my face--
And thus I must silence my own lungs for a time
To strain to hear something in the distance
Which means little to me, and so much to you.

It's late,
And I'm standing at the kitchen counter
Writing about my day with you.
I'm standing, rotating between taking bites of whatever leftovers
I found in the refrigerator and writing about you.
I turn around to wash my bowl in the sink
And I'm afraid to not face my writing
Because, while my mind is otherwise occupied,
My own words might change to form
Faces--nameless, I wish that I could say,
But I can put strings of letters to every single one--
Which will haunt me with their glowing eyes full of demand.
When I run from you, you know that I want you to chase me.
It's a game, fun and cute.
And I feel guilty for liking it--guilty because I don't deserve to
Enjoy the situation, I tell myself, but guilty just as much because
You don't deserve to be compared to them, and
In my mind, you're chasing me just like they did.
This time, I do want it, and
This time, I'm with someone who would never take that for granted, but
This time, I'm not running from a monster.
This time, I'm running from what I'm afraid to transfigure into a monster.
This time, I'm running from you with my feet and with my emotions.
This time, I'm scared of myself, not the world around me.
This time, I'm not afraid of the man in front of me;
This time, I'm afraid of the man in the mirror.
This time, it's not your fault:
It's entirely mine,
And I'm terrified beyond all terror previously known of
What I have the potential to make of you.
Unlike you, it's not pretty.

It's late, and these words have escaped my head as these
Faces have reentered it.
I will look them in their fiery eyes.
I will tell them that they are free to go,
That they will not haunt me,
That they will not make of you through me what they are
That did this to me.
I am no victim of crime, and I am no victim of a carefree life.
This is not bravery, is not a cry for help, is not a message to people everywhere
Who have known the same faces and the same feelings and the same fate.
I do not want justice, however I could hope to define the word.
This time, it's personal.
This time, it's late.
What I am is your lover.
What this is is recognition.
What I want is dignity, and I will learn to embrace it
As a second form of myself--respectfully, and without reserve,
Just as I hope that I will always embrace you.
What it is is late, now, and though it's late, it's the
Perfect time for me to learn to love you
And to love myself, and to love what's important to me,
And to forget everything that doesn't pertain to that.

It's late,
And I'm thinking about you and me and
Every ounce of love that the world has instilled in the human mind
And how I'm going to use every ounce of it to love you and me and
Everything that matters to us.
What this is isn't really a poem about love, though,
Or about you, or about me, or them, or anything tangible.
What this is is a poem about the time,
And it's late.