Submitted by megan on Sun, 06/22/2008 - 22:03
The ribs of the mattress etch their crosshatch pattern into my thighs as your hand, splayed over my sacrum, pushes me down on its corner. You're not just holding. Using the bed as leverage to get deeper.
My toes slip scrabble on the cheap carpet, the seams chew deeper. I breathe a hank of shiny cotton into my mouth. Bite, to keep my own voice down, to hear your cries, cut and refracted, woven nonsense syllables, they bounce off the yellowed stucco walls.