Black Lace

That night, the one she called me a whore, we sat out in the field and I wept- not for the name she called me, but for the state of my soul and its hunger for the world. I had a small stash of coins with me and a collection of credit cards. I'd nearly cut the them all to pieces but realised I'd regret it come morning. We sat on the grassy mound while the deer passed around us, and the moon was there to help us see and the breeze to help us breathe. He listened to me as I hummed on about eating too much and spending too much, and he just said things would be alright. And he was right. I grew out of that obsession and soon found another to cradle tight in my lonely night.


And when we were through with the mounds and the moon, we came home to her weeping and her legs spread about. And dressed in black lace, with black tears down her face, she was bleeding to death and to life all the same. She convulsed and she shook and she grabbed at our knees, then fell at our ankles and started to plea. With fingers clenched tight, cutting into our bones, she reached for forgiveness and clawed at our souls. The dark and the bright, all collided that night, and the demons and angels did fight for her plight. For the windows and doors and the lights overhead, did flicker and shutter like raising the dead. And we touched and we cried and we pleaded and prayed, yet she was the one- just wanting to get laid.


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He held her tight, pressing the backsides of her thighs down hard against the cracked vinyl seats of their old burgundy convertible, and for a moment she was with him. He said he loved her and touched her that way too. Her long red hair was flat against each breast and her slender legs crossed. She wore a pale yellow sundress with bare feet beneath. She passed her toes back and forth diagonally across the sand colored floor mats, fixated on the color of the dashboard, wishing for another time and another face.