Getting Intimate with Death

Year after year, he waits for me,
so calm, so cool, so smug and self-assured,
secure in his knowledge that one day I will be his, that he will possess me
and I am so afraid that eventually I will succumb,
say “yes” to his promises of a world without pain,
a place without race or class or religion,
a place where happiness is the rule
and there are no exceptions.

He catches up with me at a party.
He puts his hands on my hips.
I feel his warm, smoky breath on the back of my neck.
I don’t need to turn to know who’s standing behind me.
Coolant-coated fingers travel the length of my spine.
He whispers softly in my ear and I automatically turn to him.
I had forgotten how even a glance at him could make me forget myself.
Our eyes connect.
He grabs my arm, gripping tightly,
making me feel like a delinquent elementary-schooler being marched to the principal’s
office.
I had forgotten how he could instantly control me.
I can’t do anything but stare at him,
looking so good, standing tall, his slender body emphasized by jeans that look painted on,
on his jaw a slender white scar,
in his face a past, mystery.
He is so forbidden,
I cannot help but want him.
He puts his lips to mine, holding my face in his big hands.
He presses the length of his body against mine,
running his fingers down my neck,
moving his hands across my body,
tugging at my hooks and buttons and zippers.
My body reacts and I grab at his clothing,
pulling him down onto the bed,
not wanting to wait even a second longer
then my head starts screaming at me:
“No! Not again, not like this,” I think.
He stares at me, his coal black eyes angry slits,
leans over again.
I try to resist, to push him away,
to dissect myself from him,
always reminding myself, “this is wrong, this is bad,”
but I can’t believe my own words, can’t make myself stop.

All the time I’m so very aware of his presence
in my deepest hunger.
I want him to ease the ache at my very core,
fill the gaping hole.
Days I yearn for him, pray to him believe him inevitable,
others I resist, will him out of my thoughts,
dare him to come to me, a cigarette-smoking, soul-selling savior.
I have kept him at bay, a memory best left untouched.

His lips are on my breast, his hands on my ass,
salty sweat and bare skin against bare skin
but I can’t go through with it this time.
I push him away from me,
get up, begin to dress.
We are all the time engaged in these same struggles,
the prize being my life.
I am so tired of our endless fighting,
the pointless power struggle,
the contest for a soul perhaps not worth saving,
that I almost give up, give in, give away,
but I can’t,
to lose would be to die
and then he would own me.
He would recreate me
as a bitch who never thought of anyone but herself,
playing the same damn mind games he played on her;
as a cunt who fucked them all over,
spreading her legs for the biggest player of them all
and never caring;
as a murderer who killed all that was good within herself.
This lover of mine, with his sexy eyes and charming way,
would use me,
destroying anything pure inside me, anything worthwhile
and when he had finished molding me into his image
he would have made me
a monster.