Plain as day, day-drinking.
Overconsumption.
The room starts spinning.
Walking-out without paying.
Midday meltdowns.
I’m hungry.
I need to shower.
She stays behind to find some other men to fuck.
The ones from the night before were not enough.
She’s running out of sources.
Her nearly weightless body transformed her.
A stomach altered to a disjointed form.
Slumped over, mumbling to the DC curbs.
“Do we want to go home with them?”
She asks me
These men look to me now.
Pleading.
Like I’ll have an answer that completes them.
Like children asking for a sleepover that won’t end right.
No. Our car is here.
Her fingers stabbing away inside me.
Kisses like landmines smash my face.
After the fucking in the shower
After my back was against the mattress.
Why haven’t you come yet?
Anger in her voice.
Distress in my own.
80 pounds later and she still wears a girdle to keep her flesh in.
Only now, the girdle dances, moves, and melds with her body.
Decorated in lace and filigree, the men take notice.
Before it was a girdle centered on an all-out war.
Containing all the pain that’d come along
And made her body home.
The same feelings I felt at 14.
Where your core is strapped in but always ready for more.
An armor under jersey fabric, dressed up nice now, for the girl from New Jersey.
A dove before a falcon.
She’s hunting.
She moves through me.
I dissociate.
This feast for pleasure cannot wait.
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