knuckle

i suppose this is our conclusion, then.

my wrists

bleeding out over the kitchen sink;

your whiskey

pouring over my wounds.

i am all cuts and scrapes

where you are all numbing tonics

and snoozed alarm clocks.

we strangle each other

against the off-white walls

and i’m sobbing

as you strike my cheek.

when they ask me

if it was because of the pain,

i shrug like a woman so unaffected

by a tragedy so insurmountable.

only we can know

it was because i wish i’d struck first.

i suppose this is our beginning, then.

your body pressed against mine

under the neon glare

of the bathroom light,

my hands tangled in your hair,

our lips biting and tearing and gnawing.

i will draw myself to you

like a moth to a flame;

you will crawl to me

like a parched hyena

near a stream.

neither of us will know who opened the door first; neither of us will care.