[2 May 2010—Midnight]
your concerns should not be
of my lips straying—
your worry should be
only of my hands:
the foreign hand you fear i grab
is a handle made of molded plastic
which holds a serrated steel blade;
each groove worn & rough
like any tawdry sex that i could have
while you are away.
the pair of breasts you dread i squeeze
is my protruding veins—how they pop
from my wrists and form a cleavage
where the heads & lips of only the bravest men
lie gently until they fall asleep.
the threshold you beg me not to penetrate
is a gash through the pale underside
of my arms: a lustful well dug
not for womanly moistness,
but for the rush of warm blood
like lava from my pulsing arteries—
pumping up & down like unfaithful hips.
the woman you wish i never hold
(at least not while i am out of sight)
has no flesh or curves for me to grope:
instead she seizes me and we dance about
to the beat of my resenting tears—
we stomp our feet to my quickening breath
until it fades softer-softer-softer-softer
& the song ends; i curl up on the floor
after this night of dismal selfish pleasure.
instead of semen, this climax comes with blood.