Poetry
To Men Who Are Not My Valentines
A letter to my younger self
CW/TW: Themes of sexual assault
To the boy who jammed his fingers down my pants on the log ride when I was eleven,
You were right.
You said that I would learn to like it.
I did, eventually.
Years later with boys who were not ham-fisted brutes
Boys who cut their fingernails and not me.
You said I would remember you
I have.
You said if I told I would be sorry.
I was,
Sorry I didn’t speak up sooner.
To the boy I didn’t marry because you cheated on me and got her pregnant,
Thank you.
I saw you three days ago
Walking into a restaurant
Your waistline was slightly thicker, your hair a little thinner
But you looked the same.
You looked good, even in khakis.
You called me big head like you used to do when we were kids and smiled at me and I remembered
Everything I would have traded for that smile.
I remembered the me that was in love with you and she was small.
Thank you for releasing me to grow.
To the boy who broke up with me over voicemail the week after my mom died,
Fuck you.
To the boy whose virginity I took in 2006,
I am sorry.
I should have tried to love you or at least
Left you alone.
I was selfish, and I took what you offered
And I kept taking,
until nothing was left
I left you a shell of yourself, crumpled little pieces for the next girl to fix
That was wrong.
I thought if karma was a
Bitch she had met her match in me
I knew