As The Selfish Flourish…

My cock smelled like a birthing canal.
She wiped sperm off her stomach.
And threw a thousand abortions
Into the trashcan.

I laughed,
As some of the sperm
Jumped from the tissue
And onto a statement
From a debt collector.

And that was the point
Where silence existed.
Remaining long enough
To develop a scent.
My. Dirty. Cock.

I struggled to break the awkwardness.
Which seemed strange,
Because moments before
We excelled at Shakespeare’s
Beast With Two Backs.
Without shame.
I talked about myself.
Music I liked.
Coffee shops I enjoyed.
Drugs I had done.

But as I described my life
I realized it was not a unique story.
It was like all the other stories
People filled the air with
To seem interesting.
I stopped talking and thought:
“Who are you trying to impress,
Her…or yourself?”

I became depressed.
And became mute.
The only sound
Was the sporadic sips of beer
Sifting through a compression
Of tight-lipped-acceptance.

After a few minutes of this
She said she was leaving.
Once I heard her footsteps,
Down the hall,
Silent as my company
I leaned against the closed door
And sighed, depressed.

I opened a beer
And wrote poems about
The brutality of relationships.
The controlling women.
The abusive men.
How I chose to be alone.
How it’s them and not me.

Then the beer ran dry.
I was alone with my thoughts, afraid.
And it occurred to me
“There’s strength in numbers.
A dominating hundred is more honest
Than the one.”

I took a shot of whiskey.
Wiped tears off my cheeks
As if it was sperm.
Jerked off
And went to bed.

The next morning,
I expelled the thoughts
From the previous night.
And concluded they were due to alcohol.

To exemplify this,
I got drunk.

I brought someone home,
After bar close.
Desperate to change the pattern.

She left
After I premature ejaculated
Into a Trojan condom.
She said my name
In her goodbye.
I never learned hers.

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