A CHeap Date

I tossed my lacy black lingerie in the trash.
Three men have seen those straps across my collar bone,
lace folds down the concave curve of my stomach,
clasps that rub a quarter inch spot of the skin on my back
raw.

Bought for the first man                     to save what had long been dead.
Worn for the second                            to seal the deal he was never going to sign.
Packed for the third,                            to see what ‘I love you’ looked like.

Corners of the lace have frayed.
The straps have stretched from being pulled around my hips.
The lingerie of a woman my mother would label a ‘whore.’
“Well worn,” she’d say, if it lay on a rack in the consignment shop, and smirk.

Add another strap of lace, tie the ribbon tighter, have just one more drink…
And think, ‘maybe this man will choose me.’
But the fourth man will never take that lingerie off of me.

Audrey Lee is a writer from Indianapolis. Her previous work has appeared in The Manhattanville Review, Vagabond Press, Inkslinger's Observance, CANVAS Creative Arts Magazine and more. This set of (un)love poems focus on heartbreak, play with structure, and face the sadder side of love.