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The Hiss Quarterly Vol. 5 ~ Issue 1 Fourth Annual NC17 Issue Naughty Bits |
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Fallen To write my name is an admission of all that wrong. As my oblivious husband walks to the men’s room, you take my hand and tell me you were feeling guilty until you saw me, and eloquently you say, “fuck it, this has got to happen. I want you.” the three of us drive into the desert and we both silently consider dumping him. This is the most deliciously evil I have ever been. This is the most beautiful I have ever felt. Later, you come behind me and call me good, kneel before me with tequila eyes. To write my name is to write love – to write the exquisitely sensitive tongue of love that goes shooting a 22 out in the desert while drinking cheap beer after playing pool at the Blue Moon until the Indians come and tell us we aren’t welcome. As you whisper, “sweet dreams,” you reach up my skirt one last time, then leave me on the doorstep and strangely, I don’t mind the fact that I’m your whore. Inside, he is curled up against the Doberman: the two of them dreaming their doggy dreams while I finger the books and the CDs, deciding which are mine to keep. |
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The Purpose You commissioned my poetry in a black box labeled your heart but when I got back to my apartment, flicked on the A/C and dusted off a piece of my table where I sat you, the box was empty. For 2 days, I waited outside your office while someone with a Playboy bunny sticker on the back of their car held court on your couch taking bathroom breaks for oral sex and farting. While I waited, the sandstorms came in and blew fine red dust all around my house. My television really got the worst of it. When our friend finally came to save me, I was adrift on the voice of Courtney Love and my 3rd day of hangover. Guadalupe was dancing against my wall with her robe full of roses, her robe full of tears. Our friend, too, came in boxes. One was my help. One wanted to bend me over my coffee table and hitch up my skirt. He told me this before but what could I do now? You – counting sacrifices in your grandmother’s princess bed, refusing to apologize for my useless emotional investment. Him- anxious to prove to me that I was worthy of more. Afterwards, I noticed the fine print on the bottom of that black box which read: “Someday you’ll understand the purpose I’ve served in your life.” When I’m not dreaming of your hands, I think it was to cause me great pain. |
