I open the drawer
where I keep the lingerie 
I wore that night.

I look to 
the bottoms you took off
to enter 
without foreplay or affection.
Without protection.

I asked you to wear a condom.

I stand alone in my bedroom.
I hold the shorts to my nose
the satin smells like your cologne.

I'm reminded of the blind hope 
the unfulfilling physical touch.

I feel mixed sadness 
as I place 
the satin shorts 
in the washing machine, 
reverently.

I wore them to feel 
sexy, 
desirable.

Like an object, 
you take, 
you play,
and return me 
once you’ve finished.

I shut the lid 
turn away from the wreckage,
wishing desperately to redo
the night you came inside 
looking for a way out.