Autobody

It was over in seconds. She dropped the end of the string and began to recite spoken word in her native tongue instead of looking me in the eye like she used to when I loved her back. But she bit my tongue instead of having me speak out against her ethnographically denoting economy, pointing to the sunrise over the Pacific like we were hanging in Hawaii, and ignoring the point of the Mediterranean whatsoever.

“I need you,” she drew a wheelchair across the wall and scribbled her initials at the bottom. She crippled herself every night when the moonlight manufactured existentialism on yonder bare field. Black eyes and black religion, she never cared about her knives until I started telling her they were sharp.

It was over in seconds like she won and I lost. It was over before it began like I tied us to a pine tree a month before Christmas. It was over and she couldn’t forget my teetering fantasies that were lingering underneath her fingernails because she refused to clean them out.

I’m a dirty kind of machine. The autobody shops don’t fix my type anymore.