Thresholds · Poetry
because he never called it his
not really
not in the way people clutch things
like receipts they think prove ownership
like love is a transaction
like time is a lease agreement
like bodies don’t expire mid sentence
he knows the difference
between holding
and gripping
and i think that’s what ruined me
not the wanting
the restraint
not the mouth
the muzzle
not the hunger
the way he kept it
on a leash
he never made me feel borrowed
or branded
or like i had to perform gratitude
for being chosen
he didn’t say mine
with his teeth in it
he didn’t turn my softness
into a place to leave his boots
he just stayed close enough
to be warm
and far enough
to be decent
which is a cruelty
in its own clean clothes
because what am i supposed to do
with a man
who does not confuse access
for permission
who can want me
and still leave the door
where he found it
who can look at me
like a match
and not strike
like a wound
and not enter
like a home
and not start measuring the walls
he never called it his
but some men don’t have to
some men leave
without taking anything
and somehow
that is the thing
you spend years
trying to get back