We drink until we become different people.  Fuck each other stupid to see who gets the most injuries.  There’s a tally chart on our bedroom wall.  There’s a 911 dialed on a cell phone.  There’s a dispatcher somewhere waiting to hear one of us say, “I don’t know how it happened.”  Last night I went to the hospital.  Two broken ribs and a plum eyeball.  I was trying to be Angelina Jolie.  He was Seth Rogan.  I think we were going for the next cult classic.  I have bark skin where my virginity used to hide.  Instead of a heart beat in my stomach there’s a fist looking for asphalt.  I don’t get knocked up.  I get knocked out.  I can’t remember what missionary position is except that one person is on a mission to find a tidal wave while the other waits for something to happen.  And it never does.  Who is this man lying next to me?  His breath throws Irish car bombs into the mattress.  They explode into nightmares.  I see a ring and I don’t know what that means.  I can’t remember what marriage is except someone stares at a wedding cake, wondering whether she is the bride or the groom, and the other person can’t find the knife.  It’s between my hip and my uterus.  Here.  Take it.

by Jessica Farrell

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud