Wavy

She flat-ironed my hair once and my curls settled into waves
that washed away the part of me that adamantly said no
to alcohol, uppers, and complex carbohydrates.
Curls that once concentrated on research methods and
logical fallacies refocused on sleepovers and bar events.
Curls that formerly found peace in juicing beets and
lounging in a warm bath took a backseat
to FaceTime and a bed that was not mine.
These sedated waves made excuses for twilight violations
because who wants to admit that this person
who seemingly put you on a pedestal
and made you feel beautiful and smart and perfect
would also be the person who for one night
would not take no for an answer.
That was not her, that was vodka-fueled her
and she promised never to drink that much again
because she is a nice person
and she loves me and cares about me
so of course she couldn't possibly rape me.
Waves that transformed rage into indifference
when fingers that were not hers, but looked like her
and knew hers well wove deep into what was once curls
shaped into a fist with a whisper:
"It's okay, I know you fucking like this."
Waves that interpreted a love bite as a badge of honor
and a site of passionate affection
when in reality it was a circle of piss declaring:
"This pocket lesbian is MINE.
I know her brilliance and I see her beauty
and I devalue it by not being here,
so I leave this mark on her neck
fully knowing that it cannot be covered and
fully knowing that there are those who exist
that see the brilliance and the beauty
and will value her more than me,
so excuse my absence and know your place
because this bitch is MINE."

Until I am not.

Because I love myself too much
to be disrespected by someone
who cannot get me off without
the assistance of a vibrator
when my ride-or-die mistress
also known as my left hand
has never failed me.
Because these curls no longer make excuses
for demoñias with equally demonic friends.
Because these curls are precious and brilliant
and full of love and perseverance
and are deserving of the best
BECAUSE I AM DESERVING OF THE BEST.

Curls that were once colonized into waves
have manifested into a tsunami.
My condolences to those who drown
in an attempt to tame me.

The Difference

This time I've got experience and
therapy and Paxil in my back pocket.
I've got dreams and goals and love
For myself and the will to keep living
for my self.
I decided that old wounds weren't
going to stop me from
forgetting how to form sentences
every single time I look into those
beautiful baby blues that
chip away at the facade of
the tough tattooed girl
hardened by the overextension
of heart strings by the hands of ex-lovers
who once held titles of "future whatevers"
with fantasies of weddings and children
and destination vacations held together
by the same heart strings that
are on the cusp of snapping.
Despite that, I leave my heart without
a bevy of armed guards atop stone walls
surrounded by a moat supplied with sharks
anticipating to gobble up the next jerk
that makes me cry.
This time will be different
because you are different
and because I am different.
But the familiarity of pulled heart strings
and impending rejection
erases any notion of difference
and it is all the same.