I vomited the red out,
the stain of lips, full of persistence,
mumbling sweetly against my neck,
before biting deep,
chewing into my flesh.

I vomited the red out,
insistent, angry words trying to lift
my skirt—as if I were open
to his ministrations,  
as if I were ready to bleed.

I vomited the red out,
every trace of the widening cracks
in the ground, red dirt,
every loose mound his fingers
wormed their way into.  

I vomited the red out,
traffic lights blinking,
convincing me I wanted
to set myself on fire
with his hands around my neck.

I vomited the red out,
the fear of being cut open,
dissected for him, easy prey,
easy girl, a red devil,
seducing an innocent man.

I vomited the red out,
all the wine I had drunk
to silence the ember in my stomach
burning with the knowledge,
"Cynthia, you didn’t ask for this."