sometimes i recall with a start
that i had seen him fuck before.
it was the first time i was ever pleasantly drunk
and we were sprawled across his bed,
myself, him, his girlfriend and my insecurity–
it folded itself between us so neatly–
and some words were exchanged and
before my tipsy self quite understood the plot of things
he was there, ripping at her clothes and she was squealing
she was screaming and then she was naked
and i lay beside them like an infant in school
rapt with drowsy-eyed voyeurism, stubborn, contrite
watching him batter her body
as though the only way he could give his love
was to beat it into things.
and because i understand the need to scar others
in order to be certain one’s love does not slide off,
i thought nothing of it
or of how close we were to his parents’ room
nor how strange it was for someone to yank my hesitant fingers over
to torture his girlfriend’s breast. she had flesh-colored nipples
and i liked how they felt.
months later, examining the scars on my own neck and back
i remember with a laugh that i once thought
i could never survive being fucked that hard.