he would sit in red-cushioned chairs
clicking his tongue and silently
mouthing words to himself i could never make out.

i would stare across and count
how many times he'd blink in a second.

(he always seemed so nervous
when he was off his guard.
i never understood.)

there was something so desirable and dangerous
about him, unsavory and filthy.
endearing as he'd wrap his bright yellow fingers
all the way around my wrists and lay me down,
small against him.

he'd pump into my body and
breathe whispers into my ear canal,
"i feel like such a man when i'm fucking you."
i'd feel raw and satisfied, dirty.

he was always having weird dreams,
about having a twat or losing his dick
to some gangrenous disease.
when we'd fuck he'd tell me not
to clench my cunt, and i would comply, confused.

there was something so purely
self-righteous and unflinching
about his beauty, his flawless
ability to get into your nightmares
and mold images into your third-eye
that made you shake them away to dust,
but it would never last.

his face got messed up real bad in michigan.
he didn't have any money so they beat him
cold and unapologetically until he fell motionless
upon pavement until the police hauled him away.

in the hospital he looked like a child
in a printed gown, drowning in the starched,
white bed of the emergency unit, unable to speak
visibly two-faced. one side left bloodied and
unrecognizeable, an eye swollen shut and his
cheek cracked to the veins.

the scars might make it easier
to disagree or refuse him of my self-respect.
prove to him the power of exploitation
the manipulation of undressed skin
and what happens when it's taken advantage of.
i want to know the satisfaction of denying him just once.
i'm sure he'll love to tell the story
of how he nearly escaped death,
and everyone will sigh emphatically,
giving him his needed "ooh's" and "ahh's".

but i'll always remember him
for what he didn't mean to do,
never intended to leave behind.

he was never as pre-meditated as he tried to be,
and i would love him for the things he'd
autonomously do.
dipping oddities into coffee cups,
peeling oranges in one even go,
sneezing in pairs and tying his shoes lopsided,
and those remnants that he'd brand
like imprints into my skull.

the flask half-full of whiskey
that he'd forget on the bed-side table,
i would slowly sip from after our shameless nights.
his hip-bones would leave purple bruises on my body
and after i'd hear him rumbling full-speed from
the driveway, i would admire in the mirror
my own naked hips, and the remainders of his presence
that i'd discard after he'd go.

tobacco schwag fallen from his yellowed fingers,
bent book pages, mindfully worn and carefully turned,
broken bottles and dented cans, orange peels and
bread crusts always missing the trash.

but that smell--
of sugar-sweat and black coffee,
malt liquor and stale cigarettes--
that smell would stay in bedsheets for days
and days.

and

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...