Whore

People are texture,

color.

Artificial blue raspberry.

Earthy and smooth

avocado meat.

Boring and brassy

French vanilla.

This dude is

the deep sienna of

light passing through

whiskey.

I'm a frosty glass,

sensitive to heat.

Frothy.

Filled with faceted ice.

I am inhibitive,

with the opacity

of earthworm flesh.

Underage.

Six legged and unsettling.

The shiny gulls

in the driveway

are as big as chickens.

Some feathers match

the shimmery spots

of oil in the gravel.

They open their beaks

in displeasure,

cawing in warning.

Try to peck me

from between.

I only see the

Pollock of white splatters

that drop from their

assholes.

I don't believe I belong

in the bellies of birds,

so I suck blood.

Swallow.

A mosquito

feeding the flailing child

inside her.

He burns on the way

down,

makes my ice glitter,

tink,

pop

as it melts.

My frost becomes drops.

It leaves a pool.

It is August and hot.

Our skin squeaks,

sticks

and sweats

on the exposed plastic

of an air mattress.

He panics and stops.

I am empty,

unfinished.

I go dry.

Alive as bird feed.

My head will hurt

tomorrow.

He says I was

his first drink, too.

Accuses me of corruption.

"You are a whore.

Why did you let me do that?

You let me defy God!"

He starts to cry.

I learn that men

are fragile.

Need a vessel

for their tears.

Still need to sleep

in the gulls' nest.

Women deal with

the hangover

so their men don't drip

off the edge of the table.

Or the edge of

the earth.

What starts as some

booze in a cup

ends up large

and full of fish.

Full of floating garbage.

I become the floor,

the sand,

a gull,

the moon.

A whore for

holding him together.