Consent

I gift my heart permission to feel. 
          my brain permission to analyze. 
                    my body permission to crave. 

because, what does consent look like
without practicing how "no" feels 
on the depths of my emotions 
the electricity running through me 
and the tips of my fingertips grazing
the delicate wetness of my inner folds

it's the way he pinned me down
a degree at a time until I boiled
the confusion the next morning 
the denial the following year 
the shame recorded in my deposition

it's the way she manipulated me
into questioning the voices in my head
both the one informing me I am worthy 
and the louder one that remind me 
of all the ways I am never enough

this all feels unfinished, like the 
lesson is always just out of my reach
I'm a pattern trapped in a wash and fold
cast away when I'm too dirty to be held close 
kept at a careful distance when my delicates
are too clean to be anything but preserved

if I can't say yes to myself, to my 
cravings and wantings and flaws 
how will I ever be ready to say no.