My friends point out that I have so many stories of men

saying the wrong things to me.

My friends ask if I ever, you know,

thought that maybe it’s uh, me?

Ha ha. Good joke. We all laugh together,

then twiddle our tongues around the truth in our laps.

I tell them: All of his texts read,

Don’t make excuses. Be down.

All of mine were blank accidents

or, we’ll see.

I tell them:

He introduced himself with I love you

and I, being bored, being stupid,

being so used to this that I no longer react

gave him my number when he asked.

I tell them:

All of their faces become the same,

with a single mouth of thirst

and one great proposition of It

that they do not have to finish spitting out

before I nod.

I tell them:

Yes, I have thought about whether or not I was the issue.

But what is my solution?

Shall I slice off my smile

and replace it with a stab wound that says,

I’ve heard this all before?

What would it change?

I tell them what they want to hear.

My friends. These men.

Still the silence sticks to me like a question

I was never really given an option to say no to.