micahruelle:

He doesn’t quite know what to do with me.
I lie beside him twitching in bed
and he says, “Is it your leg again?”
Oh no my love, it’s another cramping.
Year after year I’ve eaten him away
with the tyranny of niceness, Now now
calm down, no rage, no negativity…
that American wife thing I’ve done to
him, whom I could barely look at once
without fainting, heart thudding, throat tight with all
the crazy words that flung themselves like silken
spinnerets against him, who caught hold
and saved me— And now we have spun this shimmering
wide net which is dawn with cardinals singing
in the privet, which is our white bed
beneath the window, pillows rumpled, quilt
heavy and warm with the valley of cats,
which is his leg with its bony knee pressed
into me, my leg thrown over his, soft
cock fluttering sleepily in my hand now
his furred belly warms my back, he’s my bear—
But I miss the teeth that would grip my throat
once, the blood on the marble floor, me skidding
like a fish as we thrashed in my meness,
and the proud mark I bore, see, bruises, then
we showered where water flung to the four walls,
drenching the sink, salt-white towels, toilet,
in that bare Santorini bathroom,
nothing but the sea around—sea sea sea sea,
outside the window.

        Come back to me,
My splendid furred beast, your curled lip snarling.