Tonight's Poet Corner: Someone Else's Story

Someone Else's Story
by Belinda Roddie

I didn't want her hands on me - digging
around in the torn pockets of my jeans, tugging
at the frayed loose ends of my sweater, dragging
me away from lights that more exuded warmth
than aided my sight. When she kissed me, I tensed

up. I felt all the human parts of me turn to metal
around my bones, squeaking hinges replacing the
smooth movement of my limbs. My jaw got so
stiff that it nearly felt ossified, like I was becoming
a fossil before I even died. In the other room,

others, like us, were making love. Others like us
were dipping their fingers into a nectar that came
only from each other's mouths, in the form of short,
sweet breaths and words that had no sharp end but
were affirmative, monosyllabic declarations to
whoever above their heads was listening, be it God
or the couple having sex upstairs. Yes, yes, yes,

yes. I didn't speak. When she finished with me, she left
a trail of alien flame along my ribs and shoulders. I felt
tattooed in the worst possible way: Not with needles,
but with teeth and fingernails and sweat. She collected
her clothes, and once I was alone again, I could still

feel her hands on me. Digging around in the now
empty caverns of my body where my confidence
used to be - scooped out as if by a trowel from rich,
stable, life-giving dirt. Tugging at the loose ends
of my fraying mind. Dragging me away from
whatever remaining light came from the window -
gold, to white, to gray, to ash.