The shrapnel of his hands.

For Madison

His hands are on your thighs, tracing
the curve of your hips and
you are pulling away,
making a face,
spinning in circles.
     (“They are
     children, they are
     young, they do not
     understand.” And they believe it,
     ignore it. It's
     fine.)
He takes your favorite shirt,
tells you it looks better on him, you
let him,
thankful at least that he didn't take it
off your back
this time.
     (Boy will be boys,
     he was drunk, you know, it's
     no big deal. Why don't you
     give him a break?)
You tell him you don't want to see him anymore,
close the door in his face when he shows up at noon
and again
when he pulls his second-hand moped
around the back of your house at midnight.
     (“I told you you looked fuckable, take it
     as a compliment, you should be
     flattered. I don't want to date you I
     just think you're fucking hot.”)
Your friends become his friends again and you
are the one who broke his heart.
They ever talk about how
he broke his promises,
tore your fishnets when you pulled away, broke
the heel of your combat boot
when he made you step away from him
off the side of the curb.
     (You get the shirt back, want
     to burn it—
     it smells like your father. You
     should have never trusted anyone
     who wore that cologne.)
You become the harpy in his memories, and he
attributes half his scars to you while he ignores
the way his claws
scrape across his own face. He
will never see it.

You run and you
never
look back.