He told me,
“It’s not rape if I’m your boyfriend.”
I was dressed as a slutty nurse
at that Halloween party.
Did I ask for it?
I cried.
I said no.
And then I just lay there
in the bushes,
twigs caught in my hair,
my white mini dress stained with dirt,
tears slipping silently down my face
while he thrust,
drunk and sloppy,
in his pimp costume.
Then I went back
to the party with him.
“It’s not rape if I’m your boyfriend.”
November 1st, hungover,
I was angry with myself
for something he had done.
And I still dated him
for another year.
Wondering why my body
kept recoiling
from something my mind
still refused to name.
“It’s not rape if I’m your boyfriend.”
A few years later,
his best friend
shot his girlfriend
for wanting to leave him.
Two young men
who mistook loving a woman
for owning one.