Battle With Whoredom

I can feel it
just below my ribcage
cracks in it's soft shell
under the pressure of your hand, giving way.
And egg, (metaphorical one albeit)
cradled in the palm of my stomach
pale white, eye without an iris
bloodshot
cracks running through made crimson
with anger.

Pressing down, your hand on my stomach
eyes into mine
mouth onto lips
pressing harder and
my shining new resolve
not yet unwrapped of plastic
still smelling like the store (Pic N Save)
breaks.
Reddish yolk spills out of me
as I give in as I
"give it up"
the egg is frying you like it over easy
over quick
easy to get, easy to
LEAVE....

I'm not surprised you haven't called
but in the meantime
I've cleaned up the mess bought
another resolve...
resolved to hate you
make you bleed
next time you crawl to me
your dick limp between your legs.
Washed my sheets twice
and yet the still smell like you.
And I can't help remembered
the way, after you got dressed
you lay, arms around me
how you didn't want to leave.

The sun was rising
we had three hours
and I'm giving up as I'm bordering on pathetic.
The minute I decided to go by the
"love you like you've never been hurt before"
look, it made me a whore
I guess I wwon't love anymore
but I can feel it, just below my
ribcage
in the egg newly laid
white and dewy
you press harder and harder still
but it won't break
this time.

(c) 2000 by Laura Nye. All Rights reserved.

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