She ate my stories as if they were payment for access to her body
Took those intimate moments, took my secrets and fears
And only gave her body back, as if that was enough
As if that was the goal. The exchange was always unequal
Perhaps she couldn’t believe that her body
Was the least that she had to give
She kept her stories, her fears, her intimate thoughts
those were too frightening to let loose, only allowing hints
Never willing to give back what she took
My soul is worn
threads stretching bare and torn
No blanket for the winter
Nor to shade come summer
No sail to blow me from the shore
or tether me to this ground.