Perched

He’s got me up on top of the fridge, his face cunt-height; he is up to his knuckles inside me.

I’ve got my foot planted on the ceiling above his head, can’t feel the cupboard digging a bruise in my back. He tips me forward off the edge, hooks his fingers a little more, then yanks them out. I buckle, my legs down around his neck. The absence inside a wail that gushes over his chest, pooling on the floor.