Myself at 22

I think of every stranger
who has ever made
a mausoleum out of
my tongue. Like
punishment, my body
demands the narrative
that will explain this
black eye, this hand
wrapped around my throat.
Neighbors preach the
virtues of forgiveness.
At times, I wonder if
they look at me and
see something
grotesque in my
promiscuousness.
Men defile me in
invisible places.
They know my aches,
know how years of
rough sex can make
a woman small and
easy to lose. Sex is
only valuable as a
colonial act. Trust
me on this one.
I have been talked
into wastelands
before. I know what
it is to wake up with
a grudge in your bones.