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ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
Sexually Explicit: Description of sexual acts.
Sexual Assault: Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Gore: Depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
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repulsion by mxsinister
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Zurich, Switzerland, 1992
you go soft in her mouth
and neither of you know who to blame.
quick, condemn first! before she can speak.
avoid culpability by reproaching her
lips. her eyes, her breasts, her hands—
beautiful devil that she is.
she makes you taste bile—
soul-deep sickness over her role in the scene.
are you no carnal creature after all?
she sits back to curse you,
takes you out at the knees,
fights you down to the floor.
wet, writhing bodies—
naked alabaster, filthy and adamantine.
and then you're inside her.
hips moving, still,
as manicured claws slice you open,
stomach to sternum.
your teeth find her arteries,
as if taking sacrament.
thank god, that she does not want to make love.
and you think you enjoy this part.
until she's coming,
abrupt—you would follow suit
if coming inside demanded no invitation.
ungranted.
forms held flush, gouging hungry at your hips.
callous denial, breaking away
to spill your virginity upon her thigh.
your breath evades capture.
coyly, your wounds dismiss themselves.
she asks how that was,
but you just apologize for the mess.
when you try to shower,
she moves to kill you anew.
you play dead.
you're hard again, but it's rigor mortis.
"you don't like this, do you?"
"no."
"shame. you're good at it."
you could never stand to be second-rate at anything.
but no, you think—you're just good at the violence.
so you grip her hair,
slam her face against the headboard.
break her pretty nose.
put your pants back on.
"what the fuck is wrong with you?"
you're certain your brothers will ask the same thing
if ever they hear about this.
"where's my shirt?"
it's in tatters.
head's filling up with noise.
you need to wash your hands. wash everything thrice.
what the fuck is wrong with you?
is it wrong to know what you like? what you don't?
yes, when you know you ought to like this.
she sets her nose back to perfection.
you lick the blood off the side,
steal her cigarettes,
let her call her servant up for dinner.
drink—
sanguivore satiation.
dismissal.
you remind her of banking papers,
littered somewhere among the sheets.
what the fuck is wrong with you?
you've gone off the rails.
her laughter is a cruel, ravishing thing.
"such sweet nothings, mr. monaco."
you wish she would not use your family name to mock you—
the boy you are, to her experience
shivering, uncertain
of what to do about the woman
about to kick you from her bed.
by miracle, she lets you remain.
your misery, found adorable enough
to renew coaxing touches
in all the right places, right ways.
and you want to cry, but if you cry,
you really would have to kill her.
have to bury her lovely body in the snow,
find new bankers.
wouldn't do.
you entreat her—
remove her hands
let you smoke in peace
watch the snow fall outside the window
in silent clarity
without interrogation.
expect no apology.