dichotomy

I like the way you fucked me up.

I liked it when I answered the door
and you slammed into me
so hard the imprint of the
door’s panels were
etched into my back
like a brand.

I liked the way you
dragged me by my hair
from the foyer
and pushed me over
a kitchen chair,
smacking my ass
while I learned
to scream
pretty

And I liked the way I
curled against your chest,
wet with my tears,
while you petted my hair
and whispered silly words
that never mattered,  
against the
swollen pillow
of my mouth.

I like the way you shook
with need when I shifted in
your lap,
and winced;

and the way you placed me
on the floor,  
like I was glass lace
and filled me,
in near reverence,
as I wrapped my legs
around your waist
and your name
around that hollow yearning
at the base of my lungs,
urging you to slow down
as I whispered,
go deeper, baby

I liked our quickie and
the way you used me,
hurt me.

I liked round two
and the way
I hurt
myself.