tiny coffin

everyone remembers the night wrong, but i remember the sound. i was on the street when it happened. my ring from my pinky finger hit the concrete and spun like a driedle before laying flat. he just stood there, watching me. and i stood there pretending i wasn’t letting him watch me.

half of me was already gone. it was as if half of my body ran away somewhere and i was left with a sack of bones. my ribs poked me from the inside, begging to be unleashed, to be seen, to be snapped. for fuck sake, somebody make a wish. whoever gets the bigger piece wins.

i couldn’t see him. but he was always there. always watching, always waiting for me to break. i knew that’s what it was. boys love their toys, violence and broken things. but only if they break them first. put something destroyed in a man’s hands and he’ll either fuck it or toss it. isn’t that what we all do anyway? we fuck each other and create things and we either toss them or they’re taken. everything lands at the bottom of a barrel anyway.

and he knew that. and he knew just how to bait them. stick little old me in a dark alley in the middle of the night and wait for the boys to flock. and they did. some of them were drunk, some of them depraved but always ready to stick their dick in something. he knew that too.

they’d find me, skinny and rotting in the dark. almost always it was about what was underneath, what was inside and how does it feel? all women are tiny coffins living with death already inside them, you see. sometimes they rise and sometimes they kill, but none of them belong to us. and then we’re forced to live amongst them.

but some monsters have fangs and others didn’t. that was the difference between the boys and my man.