poem #58.

58.

A long time ago, my boyfriend asked me: "How much do you weigh?"
I answered honestly, "140", and watched his eyes roll back in his head.

"That much!? REALLY?!?"

I just looked at him, silent, stinging, confused. (He didn't seem to
mind my body when he was inside it.)

"If I had control, you'd be 115."
Smirk. Sit back. Point made.

I should have slapped him, scratched out his eyes,
done womankind a favor. Instead, I laughed it off,
the cool girl, always. Say whatever you want,
treat me like shit, I don't care.
Later, in the bathroom, I cried until my stomach hurt,
until I'd convinced myself I was ugly down to my bones.

It took me years to understand that he was a blind man,
sleepwalking the narrowest path. Took me a while to know,
that if I undress for you, I am giving you a gift. That your
hands, tongue, and words should honor me.

It took me years to see that it gets better.
Years of choosing myself so I could choose wisely.
Choose someone who unwraps me carefully.
To choose the life where my breasts swing,
my thighs jiggle, my eyes shine, and I smile because

I am fully awake.