Friday, September 17, 2010

Histrionic Hotline Pt.2: Toxic Shock

I sit in my steaming

shower confessional

listening to the cacophony

of texts tinkling away,

digital nightingale

ready to regale my ear,

I read, absorbent in

my eagerness to address

her liquored concerns

as I think, stern and wistful

for a fistful of her hair

as the rest of her lay bare

bucking before me

instead answering her

emo imploring at 5 am

when most are snoring


Resolute,

I answer,

playing the early morning compatriot,

menstrual blood ingratiated,

corrugated cardboard support,

folded away neatly until

crisis occurs,

in case of emergency break

glass and vent directly into

my face,

I am the preferred salve

of the irate,

seemingly an anti-inflammatory slave

until the stiffness of her raised hackles abates,

selfish hellcat captures me in

thin therapist couch conscription,

texts railing so long,

I no longer play the doctor but

become the hapless victim.

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