that smiling wink when he
was drunk on soju, the flush
of his face—giddiness that made
me feel I was drunk myself.
the encouraging way he taught
me how to hold my shinai,
strike a men, how he went into the girl’s
bathroom to make sure I wasn’t
having a bawling panic attack
when I wasn’t prepared for Harvard.
the way how he always texted
back within minutes and stopped
calling me bud when I asked
because I hated that word.
“you underestimate how much
I like fried chicken—but I like
you more.” what a joke.
he treated his necklace with more
care than I ever received. I should
have venmo’d him for the $20 I spent
on buying my neighbor’s brand new
computer monitor for him, instead
of accepting mushrooms and spinach
with chicken breasts as payment.
my virginity is worth much more
than chicken, text messages, jade,
the lawyer you bought to fuel
your disturbing delusions.
my first year of graduate school
shouldn’t have been wasted on
reading and hearing your pathetic defense,
whining about how you thought the investigator
wasn’t fair to you even though three white
boomers took your side.
“tell me a secret.” alright, here’s one:
I dated a sociopath rapist. he’s you.
Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash
