when her gentleman of that particular evening
was asleep on the embattled sheets, in the soils
of their recent lovemaking, she would cleanse herself
quickly in the bathroom. she would dress, gather up
her things, and leave the hotel room, closing the door
gently behind her.
 
   her drive home was free of pondering. there was no
recalculating her actions, the dominant movements of
his body upon hers, or the sex acts she performed on
him. and there were no regrets.
 
   at home, she would sit at her vanity table. she would
appraise herself in the fragile light of the mirror. in her
ololiuqui trance, she would dab droplets & slight streams
of Lancôme lotion on her face, and imagine it was the cum
of brutal men she knew, or fantasized about. she would say,
‘you’re a filthy, disgusting whore.’
 
   she wanted to beat herself with those words, to hurt herself.
but somehow, it filled her with a certain defining glory. she was
kin to Jezebel, Salome’. To Magdalene.
it was a valiant sisterhood.
 
   she is a woman. she is capable.
she is a hero unto herself.