The confession

    I liked it.

    That’s the problem-
    Don’t you see?

    Please stop staring
    And glaring at me I
    Can taste the salty tears
    Falling from the corners
    Of your eyes, rubbed raw
    Against the cuff of a sweater
    Sleeve and please-

    Don’t look at me that way.

    You can’t be afraid; look, I can
    Explain she came home late, my
    Car with chipped paint and
    Bent fender gleaming, a
    Contorted, twisted knot rotting
    Off of my cherry red Chevrolet.

    I had done her a favor.

    How I savored that shrill-
    Voiced excuse echoing in our
    Bedroom but it was of
    No use; it wouldn’t do.

    My palms slipped I
    Just reached towards her
    Fragile frame, bird’s bones
    Arranged in a wide-hipped
    Human skeleton, so delicate
    And dying to break-
    I wanted to make
    A point.

    But on her neck remained
    A bruise, brushed on like
    Thick purple paint, the Japanese
    Maple leaf-shaped stain
    I had made.

    Her limp wrists and
    Glazed eyes felt so
    Right, this warm feeling
    Inside washed my skin
    With warm panting
    Breath and sweat I fell
    To the bed and in tight blankets and
    Slept soundly through the night-

    And your silence
    Bores through me
    Like a hot iron rod
    But you see…
    I can’t help it, it’s what
    I like.

    Oh God.

    It’s what I like.


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