Spilled Ink

tobedlamandback:

To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. Can no longer rap your three knuckles against each ripe skull at the farmers market. You wonder if this is what it felt like. You wonder if this is what it felt like for him, taking three or four fingers and tapping against your warm growth. First comes the tapping then comes the splitting. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. This is a song about the first time you were fucked. Jesus, do I have to spell it out for you. The first time you were fucked, you remember head down, ass up. You remember a quiet ache and the feeling of spit against your most private hole. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. You remember being fucked for the first time. Did you bleed? You bled. You laid down in the shower afterwards holding your knee. You laid down and felt the blood-let clot. This is nothing like a game. This is nothing like the accidental pornography on your TV screen. You remember the first time you were fucked how your boyfriend entered you and entered you and entered you again and the ripe skull of your head knocked against the nonexistent headboard. You think you kicked a light over. You kicked a light over. This is the feeling of your body rejecting itself. You remember the feeling of cum inside your gut, against your hole, between the intersections of your thighs. You remember the not knowing whether it was a trickle of blood or sweat and why are there tears on the pillowcase? Are you crying? You are crying. You remember your cock limp and deflated beneath you. You remember his naked body pressed against yours, sweating and sweating and bleeding out this sense of satisfaction. You wonder what it’s like. You remember going quiet and then his voice. Wasn’t that good for you? Did you like it. Did you? Did you. Why are you so quiet. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. To this day you have to wait five minutes for the bathwater to run red. This is where we let the blood drain out. This is where every mother shakes her head and puts the book down. Why aren’t you listening to me? This is hard enough already. Where are we now? We are at the part of the story where I say I am a man. We are at the part of the story where I give birth to a stone of cum and disappointment. We are at the part of the porn flick where you can no longer distinguish moan from sob. We are at that part of the dream where you have just started falling.