covered in hot water and
onslaught and broken
like the bed you threw me
on,
found shade in shower.
  wanted to skin myself
to get rid of your fingerprints
but I didn’t want to be noticed
either.    instead
I sat cross-legged
in the tub for 45 minutes
to steam some of it out.
it was a waste of water
you might have said.

I usually go to bed by ten pm
swathed in cheap sheets I picked up
from a trash can: moth-bitten
and low thread count and I washed them
but you’re right it’s a sense of self-deprivation
I wrap myself tightly inside
while I’m
tortured by my low self worth,
absent flowers, cold feet,
lamp on next to me and
wax all over the unfinished table
you were making
before I threw the chair you had finished
down the stairs to get you to
open up
here is what I need
I might have screamed
as you opened up the door
if I was better at controlling my
communication
but it ended in a slap across
your face and
your hands around my neck.

then a soft cloying kiss
later
you can tell has been rehearsed.
i’d be remiss if I didn’t reveal
a five feet of light bruising.
it’s heavy;
my tongue large with
little darted lullabies,
my endless provocation
and beg for hands
on me like
paddles or crops.
or just the way hands do
when hot, they
harm.

I’m up now and
I linger in the hallway,
watching the front window,
voice brusque and hushed
when I finally move to speak
to make my command on Earth,
withdrawing as it creeps
from its host;
like low tide,
the ripple distant like
low murmur
like you:

your sudden
retreat.

“February”