Dream

Last night I dreamt of you,
whoever you are.

We were in your element,
a hotel room, and your favorite game.
You forced your lips on mine,
and I tried to protest,
hitting that perfect pitch by muscle memory,
but in the end I succumbed,
hardly unwilling.

Countless variations on a common theme,
that was all. All skin unsoothed.

In the businesslike afterglow,
you asked me to sign my name on a card,
a little souvenir of all the men
who have fallen for the weight
of your head over theirs.

Nameless until then, but then,
and only then,
I knew. You bitch.

I know who you are,
get out of my head.