what the body knows before it admits it

I saw the photo on Instagram—

just a blurred corner of something,

a wine glass,

the wooden trim of the bar,

enough to know exactly where,

enough to know exactly when,

and I realized:

I've never actually let myself

feel what happened there.

Two years.

Two years of not thinking about it,

not saying his name,

not admitting that the way

his hand

felt on my skin

meant something

to my body

even though it meant nothing

to him,

even though it means nothing

now.

The photo is casual.

Him with friends.

Him not thinking about me.

Him not thinking about

that night

when I thought

his touching me

was the same as

him wanting me,

when I thought

my body

was enough

to make him stay.

My body knew better.

Even then.

Even in the moment.

I could feel it—

the way he was somewhere else,

the way I was performing

for an audience of one

who wasn't even watching.

I close the photo.

Open it again.

Close it.

The wine glass

is still blurred.

The bar is still there.

He's still happy

in a way I wasn't

that night.

And my body,

which has been pretending

all this time

that it didn't know,

finally admits:

it always knew.

It was just waiting

for me

to catch up.