the quietest metaphor in the slope of his wrist, the softness of his stomach, a surprised interjection at the jut of his hips. after i will wish he held (on to) my tongue rather than flung it back to me twisted and torn — better to forever hold my silence than scream in a thousand brittle jerking voices. after i will think of my heart and wish he kept that (still) but he forcedhisgrimyfingersdeepdeepdeepintomysquelchingchestandanchoreditthereinaslickandthumpingrevulsion and oh lord help me i cannot tell if it is beating or beaten
