(Im)pulse

An angel whispers to me in an empty room,
I am waiting on my knees 
with a raw wound between my legs,
you lift my head and spit on me,
"This is love, and it is ugly."
Swallow.
From the basement door, he sits in a wooden chair 
suction cupped to the black static box, this vortex of make-believe 
robbers and shooters making a get away on the back of a horse,
his parents have a free-for-all from above, the door rattling now
as he lassos an alligator outside a swamp set in the 1850s.
This is the home of a boy whom I fell warm for, he likes to rage.
What's god to a feral woman? Nothing but rust and stardust.
Where I come from, all I have is my daddy and his gun.
With palms to the sky like daggers, as a child
I fell submissive to the forest floor, if you lie there long enough 
the moss and fungi will always accept you as their own.
My father told me to work the earth and now I live 
relentlessly grabbing for more.
I am the product of monsters who teach little and give even less.
With your talons at my throat, and the sort of foaming 
melliferous brings to the corner of your mouth, you remind me of him;
ill-tempered.
Remove the skeleton- bone, not adrenaline 
and you tell me where to put the anger.
With two fingers I run across the ribcage, retracing this pink trauma in braille.
We live like standing on a bridge watching ourselves go by;
a good ending: I go missing, never to be seen again.