I know on which side I want to fall,
the one not swallowed in dark,
not painted with the repercussions of
empty sex, the dirtying of virtue,
as he convinces the legs to spread
with bourbon and bitters and sugar syrup,
snaking his way into getting off
through the guise of old fashioned charm,
playing his music and teasing me for hours
until I allow his cockiness to put on a show
and slam my hands above my head
and tousle me like a doll
and give me a high five as I’m leaving his place,
an invitation to come again and let him
rip off my pants like he owns me down there,
as I stare at the black hole in his eyes,
a void of not caring about me
or my experience
or how his tongue down my throat makes me feel,
unaware that I want him to give a damn,
that I don’t want to be thrown down a path
of bruises on my neck,
our night ending in separation as I get lost
driving from his house
down the wooded gravel road,
dark and secluded so no one can hear my plea
to get me the hell out of his trap
that I believed in my naïve fantasy
that he’d be better,
that he’d break my growing expectation
that I will never meet a man
that won’t try to push me into the water
before I’m ready,
to encourage me to teeter to the edge
of the bridge and jump
into that choppy water
and remove my veil of dignity.
Contraposition 