i'm having one of those if-i-could-see-myself-now moments,
and i know he's thinking the same thing,
we're at one of those twenty-four hour joints
with waitresses
that always look more strung-out than the customers,
i just finished a cup of coffee
and caught my reflection in the bottom of the mug,
i'm looking like a mug shot,
i'm smelling like sex,
i'm feeling like crusty pillows and old stuffed animals,
and i get to feeling like an elderly woman in a bingo hall,
but there are some lies that not even dull smoke can hide

he sniffles,
his nostril detailed with hints of powder
like a child, nose deep in a doughnut,
white blow, snow white
and suddenly i want to gut him like a fish,
down his center,
i want to rip him open vengefully
and wash him out,
clean him out,
rid him of the residue,

(it's blizzard season)
(it's cold, flu, sniffle season)
(it's snow blower season)

i call him by a different name every day
and he laughs,
jake laughs, chuck chuckles, gary grunts,
i call him by different names,
he refuses to correct me,
he can't get enough of me
and it should feel like salvation
but today, right now, it tastes more like desperation,
with a side of misery and a slice of shame,

i am the maple syrup on his plate,
absorbed in all he eats, sticking to his lips

he peers over his glass of orange juice at me
i feel like the literature he reads,
my spine binding me together,
his eyes moving across me,
i feel naked even when i am clothed
moving even when i am still
in his hands, his pants,
his brain can not absorb enough of me
and my greaszy, sleazy love

he will criticize me
if/when i speak poorly of myself
he will compliment me,
hold me when i'm clean,
own me when i'm dirty,
and degrade me when i beg for it,

he makes me want to curl up with a good book
of matches
and burn this mother down

he is a trojan horse
with his empty promises, he offers
more than any tourist brochure,
a better life
a newer high
cleaner linens
vanilla-scented everything
with his money and his looks
these things he promises
to a nympho lost in a labyrinth
of sick souls and quick fixes,
humid alleys and motel hallways

he is the tempter and i am the tempest
he stands on his hypocritical podium,
claiming it was carpet freshener on his pant leg,
it must be baby powder in his blood

he's staring at me all vicious like
and i feel like i'm staring into a tv set,
he's a talking head, the six o'clock report,
breaking news,
i can read his mind, he's stating the obvious,
you my love are a hooker, slut, whore
you will always be trash, my trash
i am better than you, better for you,
never doubt me,
think of me as your savior,

i am the victim he murders,
every night with his heart,
with his hands,
with his mouth,
with his intrigued curiosity,
he opens me in biblical proportions,
even from across the table,
even with his zipper zipped
and his belt still on,
he kills me with wanting

somewhere in me there is an oil
that he drills for,
a diamond mine he pines for,
an ancient temple,
a buried city,
he is architect and archaeologist alike
and i am his latest project

he is a caravan of illicit questions,
i am catacombs worth of answers,
he is becoming me
he is eating at me
he is the lowest percent of cancer survival
i am just his tumor,

and i seem, sure as death,
to be the piece of him that he will end up loathing the most,
just like a snowflake slowly melts and blends with the dirt,
you get mud,
he'll get bored,
he'll feel dirty,
he'll clean off.

02/16/2007

Author's Note: part of the containers series by coco haynie and frankie sanchez

Posted on 04/11/2008
Copyright © 2010 Nicole Hyde