After a Year

It feels like something I have to do.

Not like something

I really want

to do.

He asks over

and over again,

for months,

I say,

“I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t make me feel

ready.

Then I start to think.

“What if he leaves me?”

“What if this is all I can offer him?”

It becomes something

I need to do,

to offer him this.

To offer

him

this last piece of

me.

But at what cost?

He should cherish it,

love it.

But will he?

The soft afternoon light filters in through the window

covered in a blanket.

He asks again and

I wait.

He’s irritated.

But.

I’m thinking hard

about what it means.

What he means

to me

and I

to him.

“Okay.”

It feels

uncomfortable.

It feels

new.

It feels

like uncharted territory.

“You’re doing great.”

He whispers as our bodies move

slowly and surely.

I want to stop

but don’t say

anything.

I try to let my body

speak for me,

it doesn’t work.

He is only focused

on himself.

We finish

(he finished)

and we lay there.

Unmoving and quiet.

No more whispered words,

no more pressure.

Just us

and

our breathing.

I pull my work shirt over my head.

My ugly non- slip shoes slide easily onto my feet

And I think,

“It was not the right time.”

“That felt wrong.”

But also,

“Does he love me more now?”

A car filled with various family members

are witness

to my inner turmoil.

My secret thoughts of uncertainty

carry me through the awkward ride

in my changed body,

and through

my shift

when I wish it would

just carry me to

my bed,

not yet tainted by something

that should have

waited.

He got what he wanted.

But did I?

From then on,

I knew that when he wanted

to watch a movie ,

it was a code.

It would play in the background,

the sounds of people acting

becoming a cocoon

for the world he created

in his bed.

I came to like it.

Sometimes I asked to watch a movie,

but sometimes I only said yes

to please him.

Always wondering when he would leave,

if I was giving him enough

of

my body.

Or if he was getting it

somewhere else,

from someone

else.

Is this what it feels like to be cherished?

loved?

worshipped?

Or was I simply a means to an end?

An easy way for him

to get the euphoric feeling

that comes

with finishing.

The girl who always said

yes,

who was compliant

in her efforts.

But efforts

to do what?

Be what?

It didn’t

make me feel

whole.

Most times

I didn’t even feel

loved.

So why did I keep

doing it?

Why was this

boy so important?

Why did I think that giving in was the

only

way to get what I wanted?

And what I wanted

was love.

To be loved,

not just give it,

wholly,

completely,

unconditionally.

Months and

months later,

after

countless movies played

as night pushed in through the window.

I realized I never got it

from him.

And that I

never would.