you're moving the kitchen table again...

... and it brings back memories  
of laying there spread-eagle    
with my ass in your cocoa puffs    
.    
.    
.    
after i'd tried killing myself again    
.    
.    
.    
you were white girl drunk    
and pissed off as fuck    
struggling to find a way    
to get your dick through my jeans    
like it was higher grade physics    
just to pull them down my hips    
the music was too loud    
and i wouldn't have heard you    
even if i'd been bothered to ask    
.    
.    
.    
if you loved me    
.    
.    
.    
i remember all of these things    
when the table scuffs and scrapes    
across the chequered tiles    
in a loud, longing screech    
and wonder if death makes you hard    
or if it was just the thought    
of fucking my emaciated corpse    
that has you moving the table again