He pulls my hair
I tell him harder
cause depression makes me numb and tonight,
tonight I’m tired and I want to feel something.
He pulls my hair but I said no choking:
there are rules -
at least I like to pretend that there are rules.

His other hand is moving, exploring:
set out on a mission to make me feel something, I suppose
it doesn’t matter

I feel him all tense and I say yes yes
(let’s just get it over with)

He says the name Sam over and over,
my name is not Sam but I’m used to it by now 
he’s a distraction: he’s allowed to use me,
allowed to pretend I’m someone else,
someone named Sam or likewise -
full disclosure.

My turquoise heels are not as easy to walk in the morning after,
like they agree better with the tequila than my legs.

His flat is like a fleeing memory:
morning sunbeams through the window,
the checkered floor in his kitchen:
for a moment I pictured myself as the queen -
how we’d carefully play around each other:
how in the end it is always a game we play.


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