Explicit.

     A new day, and I slowly open my eyelids. The room's the same, warm air, the white ceiling meeting green, sloppy wall paint. I see it, think "take some pride," and fall back into shallow dreams. I awaken to my own voice, I guess last night that was my own touch grasping feverishly at my hip bones, feeling the convex space under the thin band of my own bedclothes. Did you enter my dreams, or did I enter yours? Felt too normal for a dream, a tepid greeting, logical meeting, passionless sex, movement for utility. You said/I said "Sperm is dripping towards the shaft, and then head. It's almost time." And I thought, responded, spoke to myself that I did not need to shout in pleasure, that you deserved that cry. You/I said, "You are tighter than usual." That makes sense, me, very logical, way to deduce and calculate. I well remember the old simplicity, sexless, of me on top, a weak fish performing sensible leaps into the air to catch breakfast. "You took such pleasure from me, right?" Yes, me. But not this time. This time was for my other, smaller self. 

       Then, meaningless nights of total physical bliss, shouting, screaming, coming down to my stiffening toes. Back arched, hips raise, eyes rolling, hands grasping, sometimes leg or foot muscles may cramp, over utilized. Maybe my hips pop out and lose mobility. "I'm sorry," to whom I give pleasure, "I cannot support my want and lunging desperation with weak, unfeeling, uninspired joints." I will remain quiet and seamless next time, it will feel better for you, not distract you from covering every inch in your head with accomplishment.

     Then there were the empty times, waiting for the pain to worsen or stop. I thought of selfishness rushing to stretched nerves, a swollen and engorged uterus bearing my guilt with the weight of some man's meaningful strength. My face could gloss over and thoughts would loosen and fall to my worth. This flesh yields when I am at no fault. Selfish me tightens, hurts, rolls over, and escapes. 

     I do not question deserving, not for those surrounding vultures, awaiting the kill, the blood, the lifeless face, bloodless, drained. Do you want strength or the want for hurt? I may give both, and weakness, always weakness. To whom do I give these rights, desires? Anyone possibly unworthy of time, care, but ever clever enough to trick it forward.