"do you feel," he asked,
"anything?"

the dark void of indecision
tangible as a scar,
any scar,
your scar.
that snaked across your forehead
which i neither noticed nor
ignored.

but you brought it up
over and
over and
over, so i asked, cautious as an impatient lover
who climbs out of the second story window.
i prayed for silence
and stability of bushes.

you talked about cigarette burns
instead,
which made me hot and nauseous.
so
you
stopped
talking.

for days and weeks
but it doesn't matter
because,





because.
i do not want you.
not sexually anyway.

i mourned my loss.
i licked fresh wounds
that had only just
taken the notice
from all the old scars.

i make quick work out of
picking myself up and putting
pieces back together.
too cohesive too soon
though, it seems.
because my elastic muscles
which twitch just below skin
hurried me forward into
strange arms and a
stranger bed,
yet a somehow familiar mouth met me there.

misery guts,
this pumping thing inside,
a fist wrapped in blood
nothing more, no more,
went down