No Love Was Made Here
Letters of lust to my wanton anvil.
We made love on the floor of his apartment twice.
Except we didn’t. No love was made here. We had sex twice. Frantic, vengeful sex, driven by a rage that transcends words and can only be expressed by teeth and sweat. Once in the living room, and once on the kitchen floor. He pulled me down with such ferocity, such need, he almost broke open my skull on the mud-brown tiles.
You’ll never leave again.
It wasn’t so much a threat as it was a simple ascertaining of fact. A speaking into being of something we both already knew to be true.
The fucking was just to show he could hold me here physically as well. My psyche, he’d long moored to his own, brandishing fangs into the depths of my sacred feminine. My scarred womb, welcoming him in tatters.
We’d driven all the way without so much as a singular glance exchanged. I didn’t ask what he was up to, and he didn’t care about my new name. We drove in silence, letting a nebula of resentment fill up the space between us. Clouding the windshield faster than his wipers could handle. We drove in darkness, but it didn’t end up mattering. There were no maps and no road signs to where we were going. Ours had become an alternate reality.
