Three cheers for
guilt.
One for the
words
that never
come without a
stutter,
maybe "He can
never
know" or
"I'm only using
you" as he
slides off every dress
you've ever worn
and you
lie
through your
teeth.
One for,
finally,
rough hands and maybe
the thought that
Is this what a
man
feels like?
Sandpaper and strength
in all the wrong places.
And one
last
sad
solid
cheer,
that will ring no place
except in my head
where it may
or may not
echo
echo
echo,
for each night
I spend loaded
and want it to
happen again.



*the splash of your tongue against mine.