New York, Late August

Buildings under construction have signs

reading DO NOT OPEN

and I want these for my body.

Google how do I protect myself.

I can’t blame anyone else.

They weren’t there.

It was just me in my new jeans

and a black button-up half undone

and I should’ve known in the park

and I should’ve known on the bench,

and I should’ve known in his bed.

I don’t even know if I tried my best,

just that he didn’t listen.

I could’ve screamed.

I could’ve kicked him off of me,

but I didn’t. I let it happen

and happen and happen.

It satisfied him.

I remember my yellow bralette

and baby powder, saying

let’s keep my pants on,

let’s not do that,

let’s not, let’s not,

his tongue, his finger,

the doing and the leaving.

When he Facebook-friended me

four months later, I accepted,

but I still don’t forgive myself.

His life now: he has a girlfriend.

He buys her roses,

and she tags him in silly pictures,

and they seem happy.

I have a boyfriend.

I seem happy, too,

except now I worry about my body,

what I’ll let it do to me.