Here Comes the Nighttime
For awhile,
in the dark of adolescence,
I sought out the thing
that was done to me.
Under stars, or in the rain,
always when sleep escaped
me, which was often,
and sometimes I found it:
on blackened park paths,
the stairs of the water tower,
or once in the shadows
cast by the Episcopal Church.
Strangers, unbelieving their eyes,
overcame themselves and my own
believing eyes would shut as hands
and mouths connected with
smooth, terrified skin.
Nearly every time, at some point,
I would start to tremble and
quietly cry, and for most of them
this was too much and they
scurried away. I would move
through the dark like a living
shadow, hiding from passing cars,
waiting for clouds to cover the moon,
and slither back into my bedroom
like oil or smoke, whimpering
into my pillow, still feeling the warmth
of hands and mouths on me,
still electrified by their touch,
their desire. I would fall asleep
and wake a second later to sunshine
and my brother's alarm clock.
I wouldn't shower, because I wanted
them to linger on my skin,
until later in the day, after gym class,
and my stomach was twisted in
knots and I shook with shame,
I stood under scalding hot water
until my skin was bright red,
and even when I undressed for bed
that evening, my brother asked
if I had a sunburn I was still so pink,
but I pulled on my underwear and
my Batman t-shirt and
slept the night through.