Hate Sex

A poem about fear and lust.

I made love to an angry man
his putrid sweat hanging,
dangling from my thigh.
I'd escape him yet, I thought
and wriggled from under but crawled astride
I'd float away were it not for this.
It smells, here. But I come back
He once licked the length of my spine.
He'd do anything. But he was angry
and I was scared because he was angry
and he was angry because he was scared.
So we clung together, putrid
aghast at ourselves, we sweltered
with nothing between us at all.