Instead of Cataloging I was Daydreaming About What We Did Two Weeks Ago

Looking over to the library storage closet door,
As the Viagra clock ticks,
I imagine how it was;
I am on the floor,
You kicking me hard across the slick tiles.
(Robert is so floor-proud, like a pervie housewife,
Never dreaming the librarian was sprawled across the polished linoleum like a sack)
Your boot against my groin,
I grunt trying to get away,
Your arms swing in your borrowed uniform jacket,
Swinging in, marching in, beating me,
You are tall for once,
With me a pile of cunt and “fuck me” at your feet,
Face down,
Waiting to be slammed, sliding sideways half-way across the room,
I never knew how much being kicked would hurt,
Each time your boot connects with my flesh I feel bruises blooming,
My thighs are a garden, my belly the well,
You water me and bring me to flower.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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