bottled

I scream
I scream
I scream to fuck me
and to fuck me harder
and inevitably
the trip becomes trickling down short
and he'll go fetch water
the way dogs do
and I'll press against a pillow
-the coldest and furthest one
from the pseudo-wet mess-
with his panting in the far space between us
my style unimpressed
my eyes unreadable.

Sometimes,
I can love him after it's done
sometimes I roll over to escape his touch and his "you're gonna kill me"s.
and quite honestly, none of this would have any relevance
if it weren't so true to the rest of it
if feeble prose and 'i love you's were not merely art deco
if i had the figure of a beer bottle
and if sex really would make everything better.
but i choose to roll over
and do as him
and forget
that the bottle isn't rolling.