It’s your birthday today
and I remember how you
ripped my metallic dress that night
you asked me to dance with you
and how it was the closest thing
I had to a shield.
It was the only thing protecting me
from the adrenaline on the dance floor
that you had mistaken for passion
like the way creases make love to bedsheets
when they’re actually just frowns in the fabric.
I remember how your drunken hands
plucked my straps
as if you were a musician
without an instrument
begging for permission instead of money.
I hope you know now that
my body wasn’t the change you needed.