Young One
by Cat Conway
You made me crumple in squeals and giggles.
Teasing with your teeth, your touch.
You trailed me at parties, battling off drunken boys,
protecting me, my maidenhead.
You could have it.
Phone calls in dim hours, voices small and bruised,
you told me how your swimmer’s body moved –
pelvis propelling you through water,
undulating on the body of your lover.
Did you think me too fragile to hold?
Another spun glass virgin for your menagerie?
I liked when you played rough:
Pushing me into walls, floors;
releasing pheromones from pores
and perfume from clothes
to haunt you all the way home.
But the necklace of violets you planted
Bloomed, then faded;
and I had nothing left of you.