Rough Love

I want to forget those nights
white out these memories of pinkpurple.
I thought it would be fun.
I thought it would be freeing.
I thought I was sober.

Soft.
Gentle.
Your teeth beartrap my lower lip.
Wanting more.
Needing more.
Our love making reverted to sex.

Today
I’m staring in the mirror
not noticing my imperfections,
noticing yours.
Your bifurcate implanted in my skin — my throat.
Your carnivorous lust irks its way under my tongue
leaving behind a blood bubble of
your sins.

I’m still soaked in your Irish Spring stench.
I want to wash you away in a weeks’ worth of showers.

Tomorrow
I look at the bruises you left on my neck.
Go ahead.
Choke me again.
More bruises develop.
It will take days to get you off of me,
weeks to get you out of me
and months to get away.