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.

Advertisements