Virgin/Whore/Mother/I by Sam Cobbler

How did you ask him to fuck you?, she asks.

Why are you flinching? Fuck is just a word.


I wasn't thinking about you when I fucked him, mother.


Nowadays, someone better.

You don't understand how his shoulder brings comfort,

even when his elbow nudges me in my sleep. He's warm.

I don't dream of opening elevators

and hanging, dripping womencorpses.

Not when I'm sleeping next to him, every night,


not until I came here, with you.


His semen is warm, too. I like it on me. Don't make me the victim.

I want this, every time.

His lips in a line, but I can see when he smiles

and it's because of me.


I wasn't thinking about you when I fucked him, mother


You bathed me, changed me, wiped me, when I was nine years old. Too old.
You held a pillow to my face every night when I dreamed.

You eat spinach for lunch, and your tiny bones clutch me,

your baby, your baby, mama mama you'll never leave.


I don't need to feel dirty. Yes, I've scrubbed my neck.

Inspect my mouth for cavities.

You look at me and you see my open cunt.

Yes, I washed the backs of my hands today. Yes, I sucked her nipple.

And stop.



​
Sam Cobbler is a student and writer. She could say
she likes winter the best of all, but she would be lying.