by yt sumner
No more make-up sex,
Looking in the mirror, wondering how it got this way.
With my mascara bloody, with my lips running black. No more. Fucking. Sweating. His pain into my ear. No more crying into the pillow.
In the shower. In the dark.
Or how about no more laughing with my friends,
I can handle it.
It’s just his way.
I’m sure he means it.
I’m sure you can’t fake that.
The way everything disappears when he slides inside, when he takes me hard with enough of the rough to make me feel just enough pain to forget all the things that made me this way. Made me take him. Again and again.
As if I didn’t understand.
What made it worse was that I did.
Of course I did.
I sang his song. Even though the words got caught in my throat, they made me choke on his disease, the one that made him wheeze,
Baby, I’m so sorry.
And I took it, let him beat me down, drag me back up. Flip up on his string. With a jerk, with a flick of his wrist, the ones I licked as I pretended my heart was full instead of swollen with disease, infected with him.
I say to this teary mess. I beg her not to go back.
You wanted it like this, remember?
The smudged reflection says,
Rough and hard.
His hands on your waist.
Steadying you the only way he knew how.
Up and down, like a good girl.
You think I’d be around the world by now.
yt sumner lives in Melbourne, Australia. She writes some – have a snoop at her blog and check out her latest postcard project ‘you and me’ http://lambeatswolf.wordpress.com.
SSFuck: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
yt sumner: I'm pretty proud of learning my first stoner rock bass line on the guitar. Fuzz pedals are hot.