White Stains on Black Leather

White stains on black leather
are all I have left of you.

The genuine cowhide jacket that I used
to jerk you off
after you horsewhipped me
one last time.

Our kinky flame burned brightly . . .
but shortly.

I had no idea you were leaving for good
because the red flags seemed blue.

When you stopped reading my poems
I figured you were “too busy.”

When you stopped laughing at my jokes
I figured they were “getting old.”

When you started tying me up like a hog
every single night
whipping me relentlessly
blinding my eyes with black leather
(so you couldn’t see my tears)
keeping my mouth open with an O-ring
gagging me with your long manly dick
and calling me a dirty fucking cunt
over and over and over . . .
I begged for more.

More was never enough
for both of us.

Further down the spiral we went
but it seemed like an upward journey
to masochistic enlightenment.

Clamps on my nipples
and clothespins on my labia.

You hung my battered body out to dry
and never said “I love you.”

I rested my head on your sweaty chest
every night in the dizzy darkness
and wondered if the beating sound I heard
was more than just literal.

It was only the rhythmic echo
of my own dark monotone soul.

You got on that stupid Harley-Davidson
and floored it down the highway
promising to return
but leaving me broken.

Leaving me with nothing but a cum-splattered jacket
and jagged little pieces of heart-colored glass.

I’m dwelling here in existential misery
in the City of Angels
masturbating lethargically.

I hope that Mexican skank
is making your life a living hell.

Whipping myself is hardly the same
and I’m starving for your painful perverted games.

I need to destroy this disgusting reminder of you . . .
but I don’t want the dry cleaners to know my shame.