lessons, lessons learned.

it was over two weeks ago when you told me you felt
      you had no control. it was two days ago when i asked
  how far you went with her, and you said that you wore a
           condom. it was two hours ago when i bought a
    hat to smother all these thoughts ― all the images of
you bearing down on someone that is not me, your brown
       shoulders like mountains in the dusky light that i knew,
   that i knew was coming through the window you constantly
            tried to hide behind sheets.

  this is when i grow vengeful. this is when i wonder why i
          hurt when this could be should be is totally my fault.
    this is when all language escapes me, when there is
nothing left i can portray but through the tilt of my eyelashes
        and how hard i clench my teeth that you never were
   perceptive enough to read. this, this is when i consider
entering houses at night to rearrange the furniture so that
      people can understand how fragile things are, when i
   fall to my knees at the image of charlie manson. this is when
i stop crying to all the painful things like the twin towers and
        the raised voices of mommy and daddy and the dead cat
    in the middle of the road.

  i can pull this off, i think, i can cease to miss thee. and the
gyrating of the air against my back, ripping at my clothing
      like a desperate rapist and sinking its teeth into my bones,
   i feel not. this is nothing like what they taught in elementary
school ― little johnny did not hit you because he liked you,
     but because he had a subconscious grudge against women
  from when his mother locked him away in the closet for three
hours. he could sense the budding breasts locked away
     tight against your sternum, the hidden hourglass figure that
  would make him turn you on your head. little johnny hit
        you because he had learned the vicious cycle and he got
    busy teaching you.