We play house under her bed.
We hang sheets from the twin bed
posts to create an attic.
She lies beneath the bed and I above
and talk about our dreams. Sarah,
the black maid, vacuums outside.
Kim’s dream includes a maid, mine doesn’t.
There is no help in my house at home,
no help at all.
Ethan said we should curtain the windows and barricade the doors, and so we told each other we loved each other with every breath, as we knew to do/ as we had always done. I love you/ok I love you/ok goodnight.
Boys were always preparing that way. They knew where to hide the artillery and which cans to store and what soaps to buy and when and why it would happen.
He says “yeah, take that dick” like it’s not attached to him, as if the deeper it goes into my body, the farther it gets away from his. This is how I know he doesn’t love himself: no connection. He sees himself separate from “that dick” which makes my hole open and close like a camera shutter, taking snapshots of his denial. He won’t acknowledge it’s him who hurts me.