At seven, he said,
"Don't tell. I'll give you a cigarette."
He said, "Men can make milk too,
Pull down your underpants; I'll show you."

At fifteen, he said,
"Shh," And ran his hand up her arm.
Another turned his head and saw.
She shook her head, "No. Help." He turned away.

At seventeen, he said,
Nothing. Just pulled her to him,
Shoved his tongue down her throat,
Pushed her dress above her thigh.

At twenty three, he said,
"Hi." He said, "I'm..." She doesn't remember.
She remembers his car, and his bed.
She remembers sneaking out while he slept. It was her first time.

At twenty nine, he said,
"You're beautiful." She said, "You're married."
He kissed her anyway, and she let him.
He entered her anyway, and it was too much trouble to say no.

At thirty, he said,
All the right things. She said, "It's just sex."
He said, "That's all I do."
Then she met his girlfriend.

At thirty three, he said,

"I think you're awesome. He said, 
"My wife doesn't want us to be friends." He said,  
"Come home with me." She said no.

At thirty seven, she cries,
Often, and alone. Because she knows secrets that she cannot talk about, 
Because she loves the only one she turned down, 
Because she doesn't know what it is to not be compromised.