unhinged and stripped of her bra,
she sat too much like a blemish
upon his up-turned nose, hands
folded one over the other until
the sitcom drone lulled her ear to his,
each still-life momento like a
bruised hue on her kneecaps.
the small finger of her left hand
was gone and she had tire-slits
that split the rose-coloured cheeks -
some larger than others, it was all
the same to her when it came time
to bleed his blood, scream his name.
Jesus.
Things fell apart.
The curtains, smoke-stained, drooped
like wrinkled eyelids, too drunk
to shine a little light on the situation;
the carpet was maimed, a room
only cleaned for fingerprints and dead
girls who had mistaken him for
an ungainly desk clerk.
They had hung a sign on the doorknob,
reading "Occupied" as if she could
fill the void with his dick and 2
overpriced bottles of pink champagne,
but no one knocked when her
moans dissipated into the gurgle
of a late-night comedy.
She had never wanted to be a junkie,
while he fleshed out the shadow
of her shirt and broke her ribs, while
she split down the middle in laughter
because her sense of
humour fit with the scars of his fist,
small hands clapping to the rhythm
of a soiled bed, too scared to cover
his face when she begged
for his barrel to slide down her pretty throat
and shoot the last round into her head.
Fuck.
Fuck.
But it all meant the same to him, hallowed
bones ached for the butt of his gun or
another shot to her arm that fed slow veins
an old sickness she had almost forgotten,
the kind of elephant that starves itself
out of love but handles a sideshow
that goes by the same name.
The portmanteau of the stage.
_
She stood up and shook his hand
as he nervously unclasped her bra,
"Your first time?"
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