Friday, August 30, 2013

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.


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

"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.

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