by proustitute

His lips taste of a violet’s tremor his fist
a warped piano flourish striking between
shoulder blades I clench to complete the sound

in between rounds we lay skin stuck against skin
a used condom against my left buttock a lone bee
squeezing out the room’s remaining air

he strikes me facing a photograph of his children
the polish on their smiles false forlorn even lost
like the chord we sound as sex turns violent

I am so used to his taste I no longer know
when he is finished an empty box of Magnums
in the drawer reminds me I bought them for us

my toes clench my breath stops my body quivers
I cum as I wonder who else he has been fucking
a spate of bone splinters between his fingertips

he turn me around so that he cannot see my face
I wonder at their names those miniatures of him
I wonder if they too turn from sweetness to blood

at the drop of hats I lap him up like an automaton
erasing all the traces that we had been he slaps
his bicep spilling beeblood spit cum whatever

of me still lingers on the flesh I go home broken
with a bruise on my back a welt on my forehead
tasting nothing but recalling woozily names

he once had told me before we realized this act
would be repeated his muscles clenched as if
the only way he could have me was to ravish me

as if the only way he could fuck was to know
his children were watching imprisoned on a wall
I close my body so that he can open it again and

make a note to replenish the supply of condoms