Black Tar

Tangled hair and limbs

pant legs thrown onto the car floor

Frantic breathing and

movements

bruises,

cuts

Cleaning yourself off of me with your sweater

A black tar comes out from my stomach

up

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onto my tongue

that tastes like him

You’re looking out the fogged window

I’m not her

You’re not him

We nod

and smile

Next day

you’re wearing that sweater

I look down

and wince