I remember
the first time I went to the MEChA meeting
he was there
to the side with his Ché mane
sad eyes
and I liked him
(no, you don’t understand)
he’s a beautiful brown man
he reminds me of my brother
lost, rocky childhood, angry, charismatic, womanizer
but wants to be a lawyer or politician
do right by his people
(his mother)
first time he holds my hand, we’re at the movies
watching motorcycle diaries
his sweaty palm, let’s go
stares and for a moment I imagine revolutionary love
(wack right?)
that’s when he tells me I’m naïve
I don’t know anything about people
people aren’t good.
He reads Langston Hughes,
I too sing AmericaI am the darker brother….
and then say’s he’s a feminist
because he believes women should have sex before marriage
(sex with him to be exact)
I tell him I’m a virgin, I don’t want to have sex anytime soon
he’s totally into it
until we make out and he gives me a guilt trip
that I’m a tease
“blue balls” to be exact
“can’t you take care of that?” I ask
“no, it’s not the same” he says.
The first time it happens
I’m in complete shock
(he didn’t even ask)
I didn’t feel a thing.
Whenever “it” happened
I was never there, it was never about me.
I tried saying I love you, once
searched his eyes for a loving gesture
but never found one
I felt my body an object
a woman archetype
to get off
when I finally asked how many women he’d been with
he looked down and said “two”
(seriously?)
“I don’t know….14-15?”
he’s 21.
“You’re too difficult.”
his response when I plead
for him not to enter me from behind, again…
and when he walks out enraged, I know it’s over.
Overdue.
About time I realize
romance and revolutions
don’t mix.
