rage

for over an hour after you left
or five minutes, or a second or
a year i lay in the corner
my skirt pushed up, my hair wild
and throat throbbing
from tears and the memory of your thumb
(my poor windpipe)
& loud music between my ears
as i curled between the wall and the bed
cradled me, a fitful baby half-asleep
and fully maddened

i contemplated the mechanics of asphyxiation–
whether i could have suppressed my need to live
(to know you) if you had choked me a while longer,
whether i would have stopped fighting

i imagined the rush i might get
from slapping the shit out of you, and
how you’d bruise me if you slapped back

and i lay there with one arm falling asleep
in the dark, my hair, some snot and furious fantasies
waiting for you to come back
and fuck me.

(next day)
you didn’t.

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