The Last Woman
Tiffany Michelle Brown
I want to feel all of you,
He says,
And his voice is an oil slick,
Intent on staining my skin
With blood and bad intentions.
I smile, knowing he’s about to get much more than he paid for,
And then I oblige,
Allowing cotton, then silk, then bone
To fall to the floor.
He tries to run, except
There’s nowhere to go but
Down, down, down.
He stares into my throat as I approach,
And the pink folds invite him in,
Head, shoulders, knees, and toes.
He tastes of skinned knees,
Uncauterized wounds,
Protests muffled by hotel pillows.
My esophagus welcomes him into its slippery embrace,
And I can feel him scream as peristalsis kicks in.
Contract, relax.
Contract, relax.
My body purrs when he’s fully submerged and
Gastric juices break him down
Churning and burning until he’s mine,
Nothing more than chyme.
I absorb his rage, his power, his sadness,
All the things he used to employ
To unwillingly pin
Others beneath him.
I convulse and contort,
Taking him in,
Swallowing his poison.
Afterward, I lay on the hotel mattress,
Trembling, coming down from the high,
Naked and smoking and soaked in sweat.
I think of the shoes I’ll buy
With the crumpled-up cash on the nightstand,
Blood money turned beautiful,
And lick my lips.
When I’m finally sated and still,
I smile, imagining him
And the way he looked
When he realized I was the last woman
He’d ever fuck
With.