there are some nights i think i'm nothing more
than my vagina. "pussy," you insist.
"it's less pretentious."

you have one hand on the back of my neck
and the other up my shirt.

"baby," you moan. groan. "baby."
do you remember my name?
i told you the day we met,
six weeks ago. the first time you
led me into someone else's bedroom
so you could fuck me.

i read a book about girls like me, and
it said we're known to detach ourselves
from the situation. the very instant
our clothes fall off.

but i don't do that. don't.
i'm here for just the opposite reason:
i want to lose myself in this heat
in the way you press too hard
too fast, insuring that it will at least
be over soon.

.

.

.

i wish you'd hurry up and finish;
i have a goddamned headache