they called him jesus
because it was easier than asking
anything of him but recognition.

long hair and a beard can make anyone
a prophet of God
so he fucked around
at college parties getting laid by chicks who wore no bras
and wagged their tits like tongues in his face.

and he would come home smelling cheap,
a drunk smile falling from his mouth like melted ice
and i never had to ask him if he was messing around

cause he'd admit it blankly
and somehow that was worse
than falling asleep against him
knowing that he'd lunged into another body
without the kind of tenderness i sought.

and maybe that was why he did it,
to get back at himself for all the ways he'd wronged me
just because it was my expectation for him to ruin things.

so when i stopped pointing out all the occassions of
his faulty encounters, it was then i could often hear him cursing
at himself, beating his head against the bathroom counter
until he came back to bed bruised and apologizing,

and it was only then that i could turn over
and take him into me, noiselessly pull him
against me so that i was hidden beneath him,
forgiving him with my sex.

and he would just close his eyes and whisper
"i'm sorry, i'm sorry,
i'm sorry"
until he came.

because for some reason
the only time he felt guilty...
was when he was fucking me.

02/08/2007

Posted on 02/08/2007
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