A warm, soft lit cavern
With a secret door
Where no one has entered before.
Where invading forces,
Have pried loose the walls
And forced inside their radars-
You quiveringly lie
And silently cry
A tiny voice that is muffled
And much too shy-
The wet, secret part of you
No one knows
And you fear to touch it
Or comfort its cries
So it stays wet
And silent
Grinding up against itself
Anguish and rage
But so petal soft
Where each month’s gift
Should stay.
Folding over itself
A secret
A wish
One and one lonely
Too scared to just open
And say
“Oh yes, oh yes”
Your quiet garden
Ravaged but unreaped-
Don’t cry for her
Just tread softly
Between her legs.

Full moon
I’ve been thinking about you-
that one night when you told me to stay
and I knew in a moment that I should go
but I did it anyway
and how you pressed against me in the dark
and there was no spark.

It was too cold to be out there barefoot
and I hadn’t had enough to drink-
when you pulled me against you into the grass
it was so wet
it made me forget
that I shouldn’t speak before I think.

Were you sorry because I was tired?
Or because things didn’t go as planned?
Were you just lonely, and desired
a warm body and another person’s hand?
I’ll never understand.
It was the beginning of the end of us as two
but before either of us knew.

I often wonder if you even remember it
as a single day
of if it fades into your collective memory
of embraces
and different faces
of all the different people you’ve had along the way.
When I close my eyes at night
I can imagine you breathing there
against my ear and I know it was just me you wanted then
I was not your imaginary friend
I owned property on that gentle slope of bed
though there might have been a dozen you’d rather had instead.

So like a dream
when the moon is full
and it’s too cold to sleep outside
I will
often wrap my arms around myself
and offer up a little prayer
that you should find me someday,
hidden in the echos of your mind-
and realize-
you asked me, and not I, you-
because you had a reason to.

Ever Virgin.

Deeper churning
the water rolling over and over
its primal call.

I can still smell
clinging to my skin and hair
its echo there.

A wash of blood
which spills briny over thighs
that I do not feel-

the undercutting sand
leaving its memory
of where his hands once took liberties.

On the shore
where the wood is warped and damp
it still feels like him.

An ocean dream
not the same anymore
as the ocean dreams
I had before.

Ever Virgin.

What I hate most is that the echo of violence is so much more catastrophically harmful than the actual act itself.  Someone can have violence done upon them and move well beyond past it, forgive their assailant, be healed or healing, but never will they truly be rid of the echo of violence.

The echo can pop up anywhere- with a voice you hear in a corridor, the smell of cologne in an elevator, the color of some-one’s bed sheets, a playful interaction with a roommate- suddenly a simple and innocent act can feel like a kamikaze attack.  It makes this world feel so dangerous and small.  It is like a constant reminder that you’re damaged goods, that you belong in the discount bin.

I hate that I can lay in bed right now and feel his hand against my forehead as if it happened 10 seconds ago.  Its like I can feel the dull and throbbing outline of a hand-print in my face.  And it’s not like people get smacked in the face on a daily basis, it’s just that I absolutely hate the fact that I cannot own that interaction anymore.  That any hand on my face isn’t really mine, but an echo of someone else’s hand.  I feel robbed.  I feel cheated out of getting to decide how I feel about things.

The worst part of all of it is that it pulls me even deeper into myself.  It makes me want to touch people as little as possible, to pull back from other people’s touches whenever I can.  It is hard to learn to touch again, and learn how to be touched.  I’m happy to take any opportunity to relieve myself of the pressure of deciding who is an ally and who is a danger.

Everyone is a danger.  Because everyone is a potential echo.

Even the people you love the most.

Ever Virgin.