A monument sketched on a disposable napkin

He does not know that I am disinterested
he is only interested in
filling, making nauseous work like
a dog finishing every scrap
in the bowl long past
the pains of hunger.

He does not know that chasing words
coy smiles and hands gently pulling wrists
is not a filling meal
that I am a person,
not a prize to be won
but he is a subway car
and sometimes the hands trailing down
my stomach are only tender because
they know what to do when they reach the bottom.

He wipes his soiled mouth on a napkin and makes
sweet artistry of me with his eyes
because he knows that I am the model
the rough draft
the fine collector’s item.

So I wipe my mouth with the tablecloth
and make a bridge with my knuckles
a skyscraper with my thighs
flesh homes and a pumping gurgling heart
teeth like beautiful bricks
because I am the fucking architect.

Seconds

this much is true: if i saw you in person, i'd sucker punch you.
they'd have to hold me back; hands flailing
eyes aflame, curse words flowing
out of my mouth like blood
like the familiar depiction of a vengeful woman,
a goddess that has been wronged
a girl who would look prettier with her mouth shut
a crazy bitch
and this much is true: i'd look stupid.

but not as stupid as you must have looked
as you struggled to keep your voice even,
laid that scratchy patronizing blanket over my ears
and i counted the i love yous
as they sunk to the bottom of my stomach
and i counted the seconds without you
because at that moment they had begun at zero,
one, two, three

this much is true: when i sing karaoke
i am not trying to hit all the notes
i am not being choked by the ticking of a metronome in my head
i am ignoring the screen
the lyrics are an old friend and i can close my eyes
and sing a little out of tune
because in a crowded pub there are no perfect singers
there are only bodies and sounds and the pitch and sway of authenticity
the feeling of settling into your skin.

the seconds without you pour back into me
like how every time the tide goes out
it must come back in because it has nowhere else to go
for the first time
i have so many seconds to give to myself
for the first time
they are not lost in someone else
and for the first time
time is mine.

this much is true: the seconds started when i was born
they have always been there
like how medea could have spent the time cursing jason
instead by kissing her children goodnight and teaching them
how to love themselves.
it is not so easy to give into these seconds but there they are
ticking as you cry yourself to sleep
ticking as you spit anger
ticking as you love him and hate yourself.

you told me you had never lied to me
but this much is true:
my existence despite you
leaves a bigger bruise than a sucker punch
and when i run into you at the supermarket
twenty years from now
i will laugh at how time was unkind to you
i will unclench my fist and flash you a stupid grin
because i lost count of the seconds.