why did you stay?
He grabbed
my waist
and told me
he liked my lip ring,
and then kissed it.
I said,
“no, please,
just come lay with me.”
I wore a white comforter,
and we held hands
on the couch
at 6:30
on a Sunday morning.
A train when by
the window
and he ordered me
around the bedroom
in a way that
I mistook for
romance.
He left
granola out on the table
for me,
and honey.
“You’ve overcome
so much,”
he said.
He held
me in his lap
and I touched
his sweaty neck
while he exhaled
and told me his secrets.
He told me
my writing
reminded him of
a certain British philosopher.
I misunderstood,
“I know we
should
let this go, but I
still
want to kiss
you.”
I saw a
pink hair tie
on his nightstand
but
excused it for
a rubberband.
The man before him
told me that I couldn’t
wear tight pants
or make up
because other men
would look at me,
so this kind of violence
seemed more romantic.
I am used to
lies,
and his, at least, came with
honey on his hands when
he held me down,
sticky sweetness on his lips when
he said,
“No wonder this is so hard for you.”
Brenna Lakeson 