Guilt (18+ - explicit language)

The smell of him clings to my hands
after sex. His flesh swallowed my flesh,
and he whimpered.
 
I called him a cab, and swept him out,
out of the door,
and took my body to bed.
 
The chewing gum he peeled from his mouth,
and thumbed into my ash tray;
the realest form of him that I could get, without
his body and material,
the curls and lines DNA:
something I destroyed and disfigured,
with the branding of a cigarette.
 
I took my time. Made it suffer,
caused it pain. The bones in my hand stiff
and ridged. My iris, a black fire,
determined and resentful.
You are not my muse.