Writing Portfolio
Writing portfolio. Creative Nonfiction and poetry. Published and prize winners marked.
How Men Loved Me
Kelsi Roth
First prize winner for Poetry in PLUM. Published in Volume X, 2019, p. 27 - 29.
Stop. Don't Stop.
"It's so hard not to be inside of you," he said."
"Stop," I thought, "please."
He didn't.
"I love when you're inside of me," I say.
"Don't stop."
He doesn't.
The Second Time
I place my hands on his hip bones, pushing back,
hoping he will understand this means "no."
If he does notice, he doesn't seem to mind
and keeps going:
pushing, shoving, thrusting.
I'm choking, with saliva sliding
from my cheeks to my chin, down my throat,
to my collarbone where it settles like an admission
of defeat.
His left hand is in my hair, gripping it in a bunch,
guiding my head, and my eyes water.
His pants around his ankles, his underwear
around his knees.
If he comes, I swallow.
When he releases me, I get off my knees,
stumbling in my stupor,
and barely make it to the bathroom
before I'm on my knees again,
vomiting him up.
I crawl into the tub, clutching my knees to my chest,
rolling onto them, I press my forehead
against the porcelain. I must look like I'm praying.
Maybe I am.
I dig my fingernails into my thighs with enough
force to draw blood –
a difficult task as most of my fingernails
had been torn off with my teeth.
In my haze of tears and vomit,
I cannot tell how long I have been curled up
like this, but when I stand my knees groan
and my back aches.
I let out a yelp
but there are no more tears.
I crawl back into his room
and he is sitting on his bed, shirtless,
in his underwear, playing some video game.
He gives me a sheepish grin and his face flushes,
like, "oops."
The air rushes out of me and I lose all feeling;
my throat loosen and I pluck my fingernails
from my palms,
I do not notice the red moons there
or the throb in my knees from the tub.
"That cannot happen again."
I hope I mean it this time.
There was no question,
no confusion,
no dark room.
We were in his dorm room,
in the middle of the day, windows open,
and I fought him.
I pushed him, I clawed him, I choked, I cried.
He saw.
I've been avoiding writing this story
because this was the second time.
The first time he cried. He was sorry.
This time I come back red, puffy, and bleeding.
He smiles.
In that moment I want to kill him
and myself.
Instead, I crawl into his bed,
lay my head on his chest,
and cross my fingers;
hoping that this time was the last time.
Lifeline
Dancing around in the kitchen, my right hand cupped in yours, left
on your hips, teaching you to lead. Staring at your feet, we step
forward together, our chests and foreheads colliding. Ease your
feet onto mind, lean back onto your heels to keep your weight off
of me. Guide us through our imaginary ballroom. In bed,
discussing death under the covers. Writing eulogies. Reflecting
upon your father's. Your freezing feet on my calves, my retribution
making you yelp. The gap in your teeth, the veins on your forearms,
torn fingernails, triangle of moles around your right eye.
Little spoon twitching in your sleep. You giggle while you dream.
Walk our friends home, block us from hysterical men on trains,
pick us up from coffee shops so they won't follow us home.
Pacifist protector. Your absolute lack of poker face, sugar-breath
on my lips, tears on my chest, breath in my hair. Life me, wrap me
around your waist. Rock me the way our mothers did. Lifeline.
There are no other words. Trace your ears, jawline, lips.
Palm the back of your neck, pull you near, foreheads touching.
Smile into your lips when you close the distance.
Note: the above poems received minor edits (2026) and are not identical to publication (2019). Design may vary on mobile.