Sta[in]le[ss steel] nails

 

She stood like a shark in tight dress, smooth and close

Her nails were bright stabbings of stainless steeled weapon

Wreaking a vengeance of love on his back

As she pulled his skin under and over, and reached for his

sex, and made clear she was clear he meant little to

her.

 

And the thought played loosely across his dis-

member-

ed mind:

if he chose to give in after such a long time

and abandon to the real sharks the person he’d hurt –

and had been hurt by – for decades of waning

love and absent sex, and zero affec-

sham that rocked his insides to kingdom cum,

what on earth might it mean to all he had

meant?

 

In truth, however evil, however sad, however bad you were,

every individual deserved the straight answered

good of clarity in explanation, and choice

freely taken: informed, reported, contrasted,

made clear.

 

Nothing of what had happened to him

ever gave him the right to do to his her

what the stainless steel nails might have once done to him.

 

However the pleasure,

however his unemployed pain,

however the thought that every time he won

the game just went on until they’d one day catch him out,

he just had to gain his future by doing what was right;

doing what was right, not expedited-

ly tarnished and burnished by the furniture of

lazy thought, and the centuries of wood long gone;

long done.

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