This look I give to you across a coffee table
is the result of the sand that gathered between
the sheets after he went down on me in his
family’s white trash house near the water.
I was fifteen, about to be a sophomore
in high school and he had just served six
months in prison for criminal possession
of marijuana.
Now, I’m grown, and you tell me to stop looking.
This thing I feel, this obsession,
this pathetic princess voice I spit out
over the phone wire causes you
to become enraged, abusive.
You are the only man I have ever known.
I want to sit across from you for the rest
of my pathetic princess life. And this
causes me to become self-destructive,
abused.
Your body heat warms me from thirty feet away
faster and more humanely than his did when he
was so close I felt his breathe on my lips.
I wish your breathe was inside of me,
pumping those pathetic princess lungs.
