Cleo

Body Count 

CW: Rape

The boy on tinder asks me my “body count”
Melts my bedposts into a crown 
Like I have had the chance to choose every/everybody/body I’ve split open for 

My rapist became a catalyst,
For weeks, every fuck took me one farther from him
Some days, I just need a body that isn’t mine
A warmth against me that doesn’t singe
The first casual fuck after the rape 
The boy asks me to say his name and my rapist answers, his voice a low echo stuck to the roof of my mouth 

I scratch his back and refuse to dig my own grave in his spine, 
Trying to ignore the dust already scattered on my chest 
I wrap my legs around the boy, hang on for dear life, say “please” as if he can save me from what’s already happened 
Pretend I’m not using this new boy’s body as exposure therapy

I try to forget the words to the song my rapist sang in the shower as the drugs wore off in the morning
Make myself busy swallowing a symphony 
My tongue is a violin with broken strings
My throat, a twisted flute
The piano keys of his teeth pressed against my flesh as I pretend I’ve ever known how to read music 

I make a body bag of this boy’s tongue and roll myself into it 
I ask him to fuck me harder, turn me to dust
This wrecking-ball boy willing to demolish something already gone

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Cleo (They/Them) is a Black femme genderfluid poet and educator. They have been blessed with opportunities to perform up the east coast, and have publications out with Kissing Dynamite, Barren Magazine, and Pocketfire. They have recently had a poem nominated for best of the net. They hope for their poems to heal, hold, and rage.