Breaking dishes

You ducked out of
instinct as  
you walked in the door.  
  
The coffee mug    
shattered against the wall  
just a foot from your face,  
a jagged shard    
nicked you  
on the cheek.  
   
My chest heaves  
and I hesitate a moment,  
chills puckering the    
back of my neck  
watching the bead of    
blood trickle down  
your clenched  
jaw.  
   
Dark need roils in  
my stomach.  
   
You stalk toward me,  
your eyes filled with  
dark necessities,    
and a salad bowl  
hits your chest as I    
hurl love words  
and dishes like  
hateful tridents.  
   
I back around the counter  
hands scrambling  
for any purchase;  
a sponge,  
a box of matches,  
a take out menu from    
the mediocre Chinese place,  
all effigies of anger,  
sacrificed against you.  
   
Your hands cuff my wrists  
just as I reach  
the silverware drawer,  
I wrench one hand free  
and slap you across  
the face,  
my palm smearing    
the cut on your face  
like fingerpainting  
on divinity.  
   
You tell me to look at you.  
   
Then you yank me to you,  
and fucking remind me,  
   
fucking remind me,  
   
how strong you are,  
how much you can take,  
the way your breath  
feels in my ear  
as you tell me  
how much  
I’m going to pay for that.  
   
And you know the minute  
my body betrays me,  
feel the instant    
the coiled tension  
relents,  
and    
I sigh into    
your  
retribution.    
   
You tell me  
to look at  
you.  
   
Holding my wrists    
in one hand behind  
my back,    
you use the other  
to push my shorts down  
and lift me onto the counter.  
   
We exchange    
fuck yous  
like  
foreplay,  
and you bite my lip  
as my legs  
find their way  
around your waist,  
and your fingers find their  
way inside me.  
   
And you tell me  
to look at you,  
while you  
push your    
fingers,  
covered    
in evidence of    
my desire,  
in my mouth,  
   
and use your  
thumb  to    
brush the  
lone tear from  
my cheek.  
   
You whisper    
for me to look  
at you  
   
and ease  
just the head    
of your cock in,  
just the tip,  
and stay there  
until I’m    
   
struggling against  
you    
   
in new ways.  
   
And you tell me  
to look at you.  
   
I couldn’t    
look away  
if I tried.