Stitches

The truth is,
you like the way he used you
and did not find you delicate and kept you awake
with the spare change of his mouth.
He called you goddess
and you believed him,
his hands pressing your knees
back to the wall,
crippling your expensive words
into stick figures.
You liked feeling his need for you
in the tight knot
where his belt
bullied your skirt
and the way the sky went empty
when he touched you
became your religion;
but the stitches in his heart
tripped up your feet
and broke you like a vagrant
who crept low
under the dimming stars.