With salt in her hair and sun in her pores,
she looks at me.
A cigarette rots on her lips —
clove or cardimom or something equally chichi.
It doesn’t matter either way,
her breath smells like defeat.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she says,
shifting in the car seat.
Yes, it’s a beautiful day,
but it’s an ugly city.
“Try not to kill us before we get there,”
smoke drifts into my lungs, greeting the tenebrosity.
I picture her insides splattered on the asphalt;
it both calms and distracts me.
I pull into the garage and we stumble out,
synchronized in movement, if not in thought, at least.
We enter a house that’s not quite yet a home,
and she sheds her clothes as I pluck and assemble my insecurities.
The room reeks of sweat and smoke and heat,
as I cram my grotesque past down her throat incessantly.
She suffers; I ache.
We both bleed.
We move in congruence —
like a well-oiled machine.
I bend her until she breaks,
oil leaking out of her eyes, nails, and being.
As our sweat turns stale and our brains to putty,
we lie there breathing, in a pool of our own debris.
[Featured image via: Silvia Grav]