Just a Body

Crowded rooms and empty beer cans,

low lights and loud music,

the smell of vodka and tequila, anything we could get our hands on.

A nameless face follows closely behind me,

and he says my name. He says it with such confidence you would have thought

that we’d been friends for years.

I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me.

But yet he puts his hands on me,

like they all do,

like they’re entitled to touch me whenever they please.

He puts his hands on my a*s

as if it isn’t even mine,

as if he owns it.

As if they all own me.

I feel like a soul wandering through space and time,

occupying a body that isn’t mine.

A body that does not belong to me.

It’s nothing new, because what else is a young, seductive girl like me supposed to do?

To them I am nothing more than skin and curves,

something to touch, but never hold.

Something to talk to, but never hear.

Is it my fault?

I crave love from men who can’t love me,

I want so badly to be wanted that I let them use me,

and I convince myself that maybe it could be more,

that one day he could love me,

if I just let him fall in love with my body first.