I am hunger, the breadth and depth of me,
you said, & it was years before I’d learn that you were always
full of shit. The girls never seemed
like real girls. When you met the sweet young typist
at a cocktail party & took her home
it didn’t seem like a real death
because she was sprawled out on the chaise lounge
in a matching bra & panty set like a lingerie model
or a bargirl after an especially good fuck. Never mind
the puncture marks at neck & thigh, the purpling
at the wound sites. We’re all still animals,
you said, I’m just a more sharp & honest one.
Would you like to leave a comment on this profile? Join Ink Node for a free account, or sign in if you are already a member.
|
|