he didn’t ask.
i didn’t want him to.
no command.
no silence.
only the slow
shift
of gravity.
the spine
yielded first.
then
the breath.
then
the idea
that this
was ever mine.
he entered,
not with force,
but with weight.
and i
did not open.
i let go.
it wasn’t pain.
but something
fell
from me.
or
was pulled.
or
never
belonged.
i remember the touch
not as skin,
but as
a shift
in pressure,
a presence
that never returned.
he didn’t say
“mine.”
but i answered
in the way
my thigh
stopped resisting
the edge
of being
used.
—