It’s not about sex, he said. His body pinned mine close,
my hair curled around his fists like so many coils of rope.
It’s about possession. Ownership.
Fists tightened with each statement. My scalp burned.
It’s not about sex, he repeated.
No. I agreed weakly. Weak with relief. I stared back,
saw myself reflected within the depths of his eyes.
Saw myself embedded there, as deeply as he was embedded inside me.
Fingers stretching around my heart, around my lungs, my ribcage.
In his eyes, I saw kindness, and a fierce joy, and exultation.
They only deepened in fullness with each welt,
his pleasure fueled with each guttural scream torn from my throat.
Not. About. Sex.