conde nast' can't beat this nasty.

our troubles really began
on a night thick with fear and grit
and insatiable demands like pompeii.
he left me in a shady parking lot
but i knew we'd hooked a shortcut
and mapped the entire route--

then the flying accusations
the screaming red face back up.
not a hint of the vengeful calm delineated
to a seedy bar sloppy in the back
with drunk locals burping beer
on sloshing ankles.

then

the one time he's really cried (albeit twice:
after he gripped my throat and dragged
me around with a random rough twist
and shout with a fist that became a slap
he gagged.
his second deluge
came welling up)

"forgive me; i'm honestly very mentally ill."
time as a standby stood still after "i already knew."

came anyway the punch in the wall. smashed through
because i was fucking someone, he just knew--someone he knew...
and he wanted to land wailing on me, but went beyond my ear
subsidized my fear for the best economical future
and then

despite not fknowing another soul
here

"if you want to win me back you have to let me fuck you
as cruelly as i can, as your punishment."

i was suicidal at that. but again, understand
the babies were my delight, his twins
and i sought to absorb this stain, wipe our chins
and live.

sagging buttresses and flagging down waitresses

save it all for the pennies at the bottom of the egg cream.

dad used to tell that story, the halcyon days of innocently creeping on women.

this dude ain't taking away my two cents. why, he poured enough spare change into my purse to replenish my supply of tuppence! he can crazymake all he likes, i'm out, finally.

but i will miss the babies more than i think i can bear.

a window to nashville is all the sad songs i need.

i meant to end with

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave!

Wha sae base as be a slave?

         Let him turn and flee!

but i ended with the admission of two for the price of one heartbreak; one of the babies really feels like i'm his mommy. daddy just isn't good to me.

doting and controlling are vastly different. did he think i wouldn't notice that medium brown bag was not from bloomie's?...

the only fitting poem: a corset laced itchy with twine

Us and Them

Nomi Stone

“I would make love to one of our

whores before I

would fuck one of their

bourgeoisie.” There was a proverb,

like this: Don’t trust a         if

he becomes a         even though

he remains a       for

forty years. And the sister opposite

proverb: Don’t trust a       even

though he has been in the grave

for forty years. It was a difficult day,

a bomb had spun open

a bus, and children

had been crushed down by

a machine. Each wondered if he was born

too soon, if later would have been better, if 40

+ 40 + 40 + 40

biblical senses, swollen tense--

--will he hate me when he stumbles across this? will he wilt and renounce camelot?

hump, hump! (and a draft from april 17th that insists on being stamped today, the tramp! because his eyes are the zenith of wizardry, his kisses are pretty fun and something broke what was broken inside me so i'm responsive against my will, my brain dealing the blows my mouth just won't, and it is just so much nicer to paraglide right into a guy's balls with a swift kick back into the primordial oohs--and he checks women out like crazy, does not stop, and it leaves me wondering why he's here, and what makes me think he's not going to skip away as soon as he figures i've run out of positions....)

it kills me not to point out that it's errands, not errons. and things make me smile because i can see right through that veil. but life and love are so much more than spelling, aren't they, tori? the delicacy, the taste, the option of latex!...and the delicate handling of the fragile male ego, the slightest slight possibly derailing it all--the bile must stay in my stomach, not corrode what i have standing in front of me--

--and being with david, it's all such a surprise, as if that was prep for this...because now i'm so chill--

--but right now the biblical reference, the tumescence, it isn't that, it's his his, and i can't quit worrying, because anaphylactic shock is fucking fatal, in something so small it's really just not something i could imagine risking, and one can seem just fine with just a rash or hives until suddenly it's not breathing--and i'm not sure: am i just being fatalistic?

but the thing is, it terrifies me: it's all too real, and he would never be the same, and it's all too new for me to cope with that, or for him to want me to, and the precarious fragility of one small thing, the fragility of another left missing a half...i don't belong, i'm just an interloper on the outer banks, but this makes me need to want to.

so in a nutshell, i've invested a small library, and sometimes i love him back...but the mess and the scribe adorable i'm invested in too, and that's bigger than i bargained for.