wishing the timing had been different (or, a poem i wrote last year, posted now as proof of change)

AT WAR

even though i know he’s next
to me, i lie here
alone,
ignoring the feel of his skin
on my skin, his lips
on my lips, and
when the tips of his fingers
slide over my flesh,
when our tongues intertwine and i take in
his breath,
i try not to notice his taste
or his touch, his thickness
and tangibility.
this body is armor, my way
to stay safe,
like his hands might be weapons
instead of just hands, like this sex
is a war that we’re fighting.
but it isn’t the fight
that bloodies me up,
it isn’t his fault
that i’m broken and bruised,
it’s a simple relation of
body to blade,
and i’ll bleed from these cuts
that i’ve made, like i’m breathing
instead of surrendering life,
like blood from this body might obscure
his advances and cure my desire
to taste him and touch him, to feel more
than the sting of metal
on skin, my desire to leave
this safe place
i am in.