Out, damned spot.

You thrust through me—with with your thumbs pressed into my hips
My blood smears between my thighs,
onto the white towel,
I flip the picture frames on your headboard facedown.

When we’re done
I run my fingertips along the rack of her clothing in your room
and think what nice style she has.
You ask me if I want to clean off in the shower;
I think to myself
I don’t think that’s going to be enough.

5 thoughts on “Out, damned spot.”

  4. Hey Girl,
    I want you to promise me something. I wish for you to delete this comment after you read it okay?? I’m not looking for likes or follows. I had a blog a couple of weeks ago, but deleted it because I am weak. I felt quite vulnerable and insecure, so I hastily deleted it. Well, I started another one today, and your name came up again almost immediately. By again, I mean another person mentioned your blog to me in a comment. They thought that you and me wrote not only confessionally, but that we may both know each other personally. I assured her that was not the case. Still, I’ve visited and read your posts. I appreciate their candor, and their pain and truthfulness. I too sense a huge war going on inside you. My sympathies, and my best to you,

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