Quid Pro Quo

I know when you’re thinking of me. Because you will call, at daylight drunk on Beam. We used to get hammered, then fist-fight out in the yard at your grandma’s. Then I’d let you have your way- but not before a little taste of blood in the mouth. No. Because. You always ask me that. I said no. You don’t treat me right. That’s not the same thing- and you know it. Why? You do this every time. We can’t. No. Omg, will you just- But I don’t want to. This is what I mean. Uggh. We’re going to get caught, that’s what. Umm. "your wife! So you pull me in the closet at your grandparents’ house. Well, the bathroom, for one. Uhh hum, idk, maybe- but not in here. Not right now. Yes. Fine. The bathroom. It’s quick. It hurts. He chokes me with his right hand, from behind. Pulls my hair, bites my ear. Leaves a bruise on my bicep from his thumb. It’s over in a few minutes, and I’m left with the mess. Then it’s back to acting like I don’t exist at the BBQs, when we hang out with the other guys. I can identify with you women so much. Men are pigs- even to other men. We can’t help it, I think. You just feel like a slut, or used up by them. And when they try to make it sweet, it’s for a blow job. I don’t know if it’s the secrets, the sin, the sneaky link of it, or if it’s just like this for all of us. I don’t think we want to be home wreckers- especially when we tell ourselves we love them. Love- what an excuse to let someone run the fuck over you. Am I right? Sheesh. Guess this isn’t much of a poem. Whatever. Fuck it. Get your slut on, bitches. I like women better. It’s softer. Most of the time. Lighter, more playful. You lay in the bed longer, trace your fingers over them, & they don’t think it’s weird. I don’t understand why men think they own someone just because they stuck their dick in it. But we do. Must be some basic shit. Lord- I just don’t know what to do with myself.