Nothing says hostage like door and deadbolts.
At fourteen, I acquired a penchant for sheer shirts
and mini shorts. You were drinking vodka before dinner
hit the table and by 8:00, faced down inside the only queen
that took this house. I won’t lie – by 8:30, I splayed a boy
who thought I was fractured. His truth of me ultimately meant
nothing, like anyone’s god. By 10:00, I was back beneath
the sheets I own, but you’ve got one hell of a nose. Off
went my face. On went the deadbolt. You never gave me
much credit: in one week’s time I sniffed out the screwdriver
and ruptured that lock like any good scab. When someone is lashed
into their own skin, a proper spread is the only way to slip the cuffs clean off.
© First published in Thirteen Myna Birds and included in my chapbook, 309.81 (dancing girl press, 2011)