be[in]tween
First thing I've written in eons. Ignore it if it's terrible.
she's got the rosary burning
in her palm and she is slick
with salve that shimmies between
her legs and the hosiery that
tries to conceal their naked
vulnerability in a moral world
that has never been her own.
she's got that glow -
rodeo-baby, can ride like fire,
up, down, inside, outside,
maybe even side-to-side...
What'd you say, baby? My head's
too full of cyanide to let
this one slide.
she's bull-
headed, full of shit, stun-
ingly unimpressive.
she knows her beauty lies
in her caresses, in the fact
that she will not cry to him
to him or him
because He sucked her dry:
the whys will go unanswered
as she sucks and fucks away
the stagnant persistence of his
words she keeps at bay
every morning, every day
she drowns the confusion
in a chemical illusion that
she can rely on something,
some way of finding
absolution - or just a solution
of cheap wine and prescription
pills that she spills out
in her palm; cue the psalm
she says eight hail marys
and nine our fathers
and sloughs away the indignity
of living in a patriarchal
society full of propriety concealed
by a festering desire for notoriety
she will never be famous
and the name engraved on her
headstone will fade away
on the grayest of days and instead
it will say a day of birth to a day
of death without the essence of
life and breath that came between.
she's got the rosary burning
in her palm and she is slick
with salve that shimmies between
her legs and the hosiery that
tries to conceal their naked
vulnerability in a moral world
that has never been her own.
she's got that glow -
rodeo-baby, can ride like fire,
up, down, inside, outside,
maybe even side-to-side...
What'd you say, baby? My head's
too full of cyanide to let
this one slide.
she's bull-
headed, full of shit, stun-
ingly unimpressive.
she knows her beauty lies
in her caresses, in the fact
that she will not cry to him
to him or him
because He sucked her dry:
the whys will go unanswered
as she sucks and fucks away
the stagnant persistence of his
words she keeps at bay
every morning, every day
she drowns the confusion
in a chemical illusion that
she can rely on something,
some way of finding
absolution - or just a solution
of cheap wine and prescription
pills that she spills out
in her palm; cue the psalm
she says eight hail marys
and nine our fathers
and sloughs away the indignity
of living in a patriarchal
society full of propriety concealed
by a festering desire for notoriety
she will never be famous
and the name engraved on her
headstone will fade away
on the grayest of days and instead
it will say a day of birth to a day
of death without the essence of
life and breath that came between.