The night you told me you loved
me you were drunk on beer and cognac.
The day after you promised to never
drink with me again, you had blacked out,
couldn’t remember anything after 10:45
and once, in a previous black out, you asked
a woman you called friend if you could punch
her in the stomach, and you refused to risk
hurting me like that.
I didn’t fight, not after you told me how hard
you tried to make yourself want me—just drove
to the Anaheim Hills, pass your house.
It was the first time I wanted to drive off
an overpass, land in a concrete bed, let my body
be engulfed in flames once the engine caught fire.
Jake was surprised to see me that night, I kept
my eyes closed as he did what he wanted. At 3a.m.
I was lost, and called you to get me home.
My rapist looked like you.
I didn’t see it, the way I couldn’t see the scar
tissue above your lip, or large nose.
The way you couldn’t see that it didn’t matter
how high you were or drunk, I would
risk any hit me to the stomach, as long
as you were touching me.
The way I couldn’t see
when the man I loved, loved another.