I've dated an artist for over two years
of headaches and yeast infections.
He's skinny, hairy, and the pointdexter I never knew I wanted.
I never wanted a man
to pin me to his wall as some temporary masterpiece.
But life comes and
kills us into what it wants us to be.
Every time I say “Let's stop”—
I shake my mind like empty soda cans
and roll over and take him again.

My trouble is
I love getting ******.

Though we call it something else, truth is
I am his *****. It's an artistic statement
that's been done a million times over. But he needs me
to tell him he's brilliant.
And so, I bury my cheeks into his chest fur.
Feeling its scratches like a returning stray at the door,
As he twirls his finger around in my mouth
romancing me into
something lovely and agreeable as Zooey Deschanel.

I hope one day I can break away and
just be

my own ***** again. But for now, I walk on all-fours
bent over in sharp-submission
and it's

delicious.
For we are nothing more
than two hungry dogs, running back to each other
panting and stinking
through the pouring rain.