THE PROFESSIONAL I FEEL DIRTY ABOUT

half an hour
half of our
relationship
was his profession and
my craving for
dropping my brain
only half an hour
and the tears
were tearing
my scratching attitude
to pieces

two pieces

in that awkard room
shining impersonality
and lack of closure,
it was strange
to cry before
the stranger
and simultaneously hide
that sudden sexual attraction
you have to cross your
legs tight to
and scrap the cuticles for,
while you admit about fantasies
replacing the word sexual for the
less embarrassing romantic.
He smiles small,
possibly plastic, possibly tender
but it's making me dirty
because he says vulnerability
isn't my style
and in the process he's
pouring me wet in vulnerability
and I end here, utterly destroyed
and ridiculous
with that smile on his face
at the corner of misty vision
pulled at my nervous system
cuz I'm so dirty and guilty
about the excitement he churns
in this mess of erupted weak.