7th Avenue Therapy

"Straighten out that ring and punch me in the face," I mumbled. It was Tempe, AZ and it felt like the middle of summer, but it was only March. "We both know I need some status," I'm begging to feel something. She laughs while turning away; I lean easily against the bathtub, the floor of the bathroom getting more comfortable by the minute. "I tell you what," I manage, "tell everyone I attacked you. That way I look like fucking Satan and you're the saint." I can't make shapes out anymore so I'll never be able to tell you what happens next. Suffice it to say, however, that I AM Satan, and the saints; well, Christ himself couldn't forgive these transgressions.

Negotiate the last crises of the time it takes to expel my last breath
Re-write the years we spent crying about fidelity
My last words spoken
retain a sinister quality
in light of the directions you’ve pointed your
uterus
But who am I to question the great
knowledge
of your engorged clitoris
mashed against the face of a man you said you’d die before you did
“that.”
Maybe next time
“thinking with your dick” will apply
to me.