Baby

I had a man lie next to me many nights
Barely there, coming back from everywhere.
Quiet so as to not wake me, though we talked.
Slipping off his clothes and barely dropping into bed,
Some nights our bodies would touch
Most nights they didn’t.
He would smell of absinthe, wine, beer, and cigarettes, but he always smelled good.
He would tell me about his night, about California, about the band
Speech soft and sometimes slurring,
Inches between us, or pressed so close that it would seem sexual.
There never was any sex, even under the influence of everything at all.

I knew he was an alcoholic
I knew he couldn’t commit
I knew we would never inhabit the same place
So he never tried to press his place in my bed
And so there was always room for him there.
I felt sad, only twice, knowing how rare this was,
A gentle man, a lush, a fading memory

Later, I would know a man, upwards of 8 beers on the night.
He was fun? He was loud.
Everything was loud that night.
That mattress was no one’s bed,
There were no sheets and there was no tenderness.
The space didn’t last long.
The kiss had been communicated, agreed.
But I kept my socks on,
My jeans,
My sweatshirt.
It was the line being drawn, physically, then verbally.
Yes, I kissed him.
No, I did not immediately stop him.
But, trust, there is no defense,
No misunderstanding.
I explained my feelings on the subject, my objections
But when I think of it now, I can't think of a moment when he ever acknowledged a word I said.
Including the following:
-No.
-I don't want to do this.
-I don't think this is a good idea.
-Stop.
-No.
I wanted to go to sleep.
I can’t remember when that stopped being a choice.
Instead of the flow of the former memories washing over me,
These memories come in vivid bursts that hurt.
Behind my eyes,
The pit of my stomach,
My neck,
My pride.
A hand on the back of my head
A hand pulling at mine
Directing.
Grabbing.
Wrenching.

At first I looked in his eyes,
I thought maybe it would convey something if I did.
It wasn’t that he didn’t look at me,
He did.
But when I cried, he rolled his eyes
When I shivered, he turned his back
And turned out the light.
When he put his arm around me again,
I let the freezing temperatures convince me it was innocent.
For hours it was a baffling cycle-

Freezing
Shivering
Proximity
Yanking
Flipping
Pulling
Force
Reasoning
Convincing
Pleading
Disgust
Rejection
Distance
Freezing
Shivering

And if he didn’t “understand” why I would kiss but wouldn’t fuck,
Well that’s no fault of my own.
But I couldn’t get out that night, in an unfamiliar city
I didn’t want to make a scene.
But the next day I didn’t shower
I took the train back to my city
And I walked 2 miles home that night.
Alone, in the freezing wind
I pulled my hood down, and tugged my scarf up,
And I wailed all the way home, knowing no one could hear me
My mascara ran and I didn’t check the streets for cars,

But I didn’t throw up either.

In high school, romantic, terrible things would happen to me.
My stories would write themselves.
Nowadays, it's all just clutter
And if I hear one more metaphor about "power" and "control",
I promise, I will lose it.
Your bullshit sentence structure won't build a meaning around such a thing.
By all means, take refuge, respite

I, of all people, understand.

I guess what I’m trying to say is--
From my lush
To this attempted violation,
Maybe alcohol isn’t the problem;
Maybe the latter is just deserving of a hell all on his own.