Monday, 23 February 2009

probably my favourite thing that i've ever written

those tiny bits of hair
and skin wilt to

dust on the mattress,
dust on the walls;

tonight the ceiling is a fool,
drunk arms everywhere,

it keeps me from the sky.
windows and hearts are open and

you're hanging out of both of them;
legs and curves and

midnight shapes are shadows on the wall
when he's dancing on top of me,

my legs should not be open like this,
tonight his body is not mine.

spider fingers in my hair,
hot thighs and cold palms

all over me. wide eyes like a wild dog
when he stares and pants, teeth gritted,

tobacco breath in my ear.
sharp shock, eyes shut - he doesn't

say anything or stop, just keeps digging
like a lion at its prey, like death, but

i want it.

lurch of regret when i finish,

he's gone.

body heaving and legs shaking,

hands over my eyes,

screaming at

empty hallways -

the clean up. dust still everywhere.


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