To My Rapist
December 2014
i am not
every second of
flighty, drizzling fate
searing like snowdrops
against my windowsill.
i am not
every instance of
palpable screams
scraped from blue bedroom walls
into a basket,
woven from
the relentless theocentric pleading
of a girl with six faces.
i am not
your weathered porcelain,
and i will not
paint my eyes
to die
at the first note
of your song.
what i am
is the viscous pour
of love,
like steam from
under the bathroom door
on a tuesday
afternoon with the shades
drawn.
what i am
is not the way
agitators wield bibles.
i am not a weapon.
i am the dog-eared pages
in every love-laced
copy
of sylvia plath's collected,
carried by those of us
acid-washed by life
too many times
to count.
what i am
is the dandelion
chain
you gave to the
neighbor-boy
on the last day
of sixth grade
to ask in subtlety:
"when is it over?"
i am not
your weathered porcelain,
and i will not
paint my eyes
to die
at the first note
of your song.