the body still blames itself

If only i had smiled differently,
worn a different skirt, a longer one,
if i had stayed quiet, let him win,
shrunk smaller, been easier to touch,
been harder to hurt, laughed when i wanted to cry,
cried when i wanted to scream.

if only i hadn't sent that text, if i had sent it faster,
if i had looked prettier when he looked back,
if i hadn't frozen, if i said no louder,
no sharper, if i had run faster, fought harder,
folded myself neater, disappeared quicker,
breathed a little less, dreamed a little softer.

if only i didn't ask so much, if i asked at all,
if only i held it in, if i let it out, if i called for help,
if i didn't call, if i wore lipstick, or none at all,
if i left first, if i screamed, if i stayed silent,
if i begged, if i said nothing, if i said everything,
if i wasn’t so much, if i wasn’t not enough.

if only i, if i, and if i— but still.
it was never me. it was never me.
it was never me. it was never me.

if i wore my best skin he still would have torn it open,
if i locked my body down he still would have found a way in,
if i was a softer place to land he still would have broken me on impact.

it was his hands. his violence. his silence.
not my skirt. not my smiling. not my living. not my being.

and if i had known, last night, that none of this is mine to carry,
maybe i would have slept, maybe i would have breathed softer in the dark,
maybe i wouldn’t have counted the cracks in the ceiling like regrets.

but tonight,
tonight the if-only-i’s will crawl back into my bed,
tonight the maybes will sit on my chest again,
tonight i will still wonder what i could have sewn shut,
what i could have broken differently,
how i could have hurt less to survive.

tonight i will still stay awake, haunted by if i, if i, if i—

even knowing.
even knowing.
even knowing.