We [He] Made a Movie

I told him I didn’t want to make a movie.

he told me I was a bad girlfriend

if I didn’t give him

the fodder for his fantasy.

the light from his camera phone

burned a path across my eyelids

as he turned the lens towards me and said

“it’s time to make a movie”

he’d woken me up from a restless sleep

and, with his knee,

pinned my shoulder to the hotel bed

he was naked, I stayed clothed.

he told me I didn’t need to be nude.

he gripped my arm tightly and said

“you owe me this memory,”

and as he yanked me to the floor and down onto my knees

a single tear fell to my cheek.

“don’t fuck this up for me”, he said

as, with one hand, he slowly forced himself into my mouth

while the other hand memorialized my shame to his camera roll.

time passed in centuries

I’m not sure what was making my eyes water.

was it him choking me?

or was it the tears I cried

as my shame was immortalized?

“you’re a good little whore”, he whispered

and

as he finished, he grabbed my head

and pushed so hard

I couldn’t breathe

couldn’t speak

couldn’t think.

his taste still burns my throat

the same way his words did as he clicked off his phone and told me to clean off my face.

“don’t fucking cry, no one will ever see it but me.”

I don’t know if that’s true,

but years later

I still can’t remember

if he filmed me saying “no.”