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By Jeri Thompson

I can remember, but I don’t feel
That time we slept in, giggling at the rain,
(You said you’d never be caught in bed past 9am).
You traced my thighs with your fingers,
I connected your freckles with my tongue.
Now when you touch me I want to scream rape.
Nothing is left, not even lust.
That vanished the first year
When you began to belch,
When I stopped wearing perfume.
“I love you” was recited mutually, nightly
Nightly.
I’ve thrown that recording away, you keep playing yours.
Stop.
I want the excitement
Of fresh hands on my skin.

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