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.

The Cost.

You offered me a ride home
so I didn’t have to take a cab.
I thought it was safe because

I knew you
and you dated
her.

You opened the car door like a gentleman—
(I thought)—
and slapped me firmly
on the ass.

I knew it wasn’t fair

but it was fare:
and that’s how I learned that nothing is free.