Narrated by Val Cole
POEM:
Am I disgusting for letting him strip my shirt from my skin so I can feel an ounce of what I think love could possibly be? How can I hate my body so much, but then also only believe a man could ever want me for my curves, a braless chest made for his hands. I want to scrub the remnants of his scent from my skin and also bask in the fact that he wanted at least some small fraction of me. Shh, don’t talk, it will ruin the moment. The moment where I draw the line and say my pants should stay on. A few moments later letting myself go because he wants more of me so I give and I give because at least there is something of mine he wants to take. Not my heart. Not my mind. Something is more than nothing, right?
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