I know that his relations were projections of my own perversions,
that her assessments were figments of my own imagination.
I know I needed to scream, “No,” at all given moments,
and that hoops to jump through were black and white though changing every day.

I know that boys own the language, and smiles mean, “Come hither,”
that eye contact means, “I promise,” and that what I mean means nothing.
I know my words are confusing, my affection is toxic, 
my friendship seducing, and that my heart is destructive.
I know that they can’t help their love, and that on connection, I should give up
and wrap my strengths and eyelashes in something wet and cold.

But I know that he moved on 
without me making him respect his own boundaries, which were never my own.
I knew I was never responsible for what I couldn’t do.