Bathroom door locked, faucet on full blast, lukewarm,
blood spotting on arms, tissue paper wrapped tightly against skin.
He used to experiment like this, thinking as a child it was a
art project with construction paper as skin and open wounds
as confetti no one ever cleans up.
The hours are coming closer and he knows to stay away
yet you bring him a guaranteed satisfaction;
he will never leave ungrateful.
24 hours is not how you operate,
he needs you in 1 hour, then 2 after that and so forth.
He trusts, for you break through the surface of
a whirlpool suddenly stifled.
He has tried in the security of his bedroom to hold
his breath against the pillow, counting to twenty
then exhaling with that burning desire to scream.
An inch across, then two, three, you dust evidence
of his arrival and departure under your doormat,
taking him under your wing then preparing for
a flight without amity.
You xerox pain over and over until he begins
to work at his own ceramics class, carving
'enough is never enough'.
The hours are weaving closer together,
and he lets you take take take
as he drains his blood to grab you
around the waist, once more.
