My body: limp & littered with gaping exit wounds.
Tongue tasting of coppery blood & leaking from the corners of my lips, the same way smoke dissipates from the mouth of a gun after a bang.
I knew the odds & kissed the barrel anyway.
The crime scene almost looks ethereal like this, my hair splayed out in a halo of dark, my stiff arms extended out, viscera everywhere,
& the dawn’s light filtering through the blinds onto your sheets &.
You’re at the foot of the bed, pistol still heavy in your hands & the room feels empty until I hear the safety
click. You tuck it back into your pants.
I sit up soon enough & you ask me if I liked it, if you did good,
& I bite the bullet & smile.
In honesty, I find it disgusting; the stickiness of two bodies, the claustrophobia of closeness,
the spitting pain in my lower half. Dumb performance of it all.
Everyone says it’s wild fun, to be polished & named something valuable by another.
I don’t know how I got here in the first place, body hollowed out
& every wretched organ singing the same song of regret.
I wanted to drink fake beer on your porch & listen to you talk about stupid adult things,
& you said you’d teach me something about growing up, the same way your daddy did
& I’ve never been good at saying no.
Maybe a part of me feels less guilt
when someone else’s hands are my destruction.
Next time I’ll let you put your knife in me, all the way up to the hilt,
& I’ll tell you it gets me hard anyway.