Trigger warning: sexual assault, abuse

Once again in the ugly grey hours

of the pre-dawn, I dreamed of you:

we quarreled. It was the old

endless discussion, so old that I forgot

what the actual words were,

although I can mouth them easily enough 

to myself, a twisted rosary of morbid mysteries. 

I would have something different. I am tired of words.

For you, for us, I would have you

mouthless, laid bare, and in my hand

a whip of scorpions. I would that

my fingers clenched a tart knife

soaked in the sour vinegar and piss

of my tears and sweat and forced

ejaculations of reluctant desire;

and that to slash into you, bleed

your venomous welts, until of screams

and blood and passion stains and the sight of me

you were drained dry,

and this mountain of spleen that was us

leveled forever. I would have our desire dead

and walk away without looking back.

And no more words would we have

to say to each other. This disgust eats

at me, weakens me even as I live

on it, gnawing dry crumbs of hate as if

they were manna in a desert. I sicken

of dreams that remind.

The end will be near.

This is the only poem I ever composed to my abusive ex-boyfriend. Quite the doozy, isn't it?