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.
I don’t want to get to know you,
I just want to stroke your shadow;
let your darkness slip through my fingertips like black silk,
until I have you— wrapped around
my little finger.
I press hot fingernails into flesh,
my red venom contrails on your spine.
You strum my softness nimbly—
I guess that’s why they call it
You greased my lips like olive oil
and opened me up—
peeled back the foil.
You let—my steam—
You closed your eyes:
I didn’t care
you were pretending I was someone else.
I kept mine open:
and prayed to the ceiling tiles
that you wouldn’t fall in love with me;
which of us
was really being fucked.