Bruised Whore in Your Bed

by Polina Solovyeva


They say: fight fire with
fire so I went to the
bar and found a beautiful
whore with a tiny birth mark
on her neck that looks exactly
like yours, and now my new red-haired
naked sophistry lies in our bed,
scorching me with her uncontained
body, filling in your pillow
with her stench.
Her arms are hairy,
her feet smell
like carrots,
her fire has ceased.
I haven’t slept for 3 nights,
or weeks, or years.
My eyes are red, my nails  
long, my body is an old
cloth stitched with thick threads.
Honey, since you left,
my dreams are incensed
with your aromas and they
wring me out,
making my insides rot in hell.
I am 37,
I am a humorless fat ass,
broke, bereft, but
I remember how
cruel your kisses were when you
woke up at 3 am
and told me that all storms
end and our storm is not
an exception; or how you fell
down in the shower and
screamed and you were all
wet and skin and skin and
skin and I kissed that bleeding spot
on your lower back
and in that moment the storm was
never
ever
going to end.
My drunken whore turns
over, her back covered with
bruises; she chuckles with her
excessive mouth,
touches her pink nipple.
Honey, I have searched
through and through her
flesh in a madman’s search for
you, but you are nowhere
to be extracted, or loved,
or tasted.
My lonely whore leaves
to the bathroom, her hair
short and her odor everywhere.
Honey, I haven’t had you 
in 3 nights, or weeks, or years.Y
our socks, your paintings,
and your toothbrush
are still here:
they are your ambrosial
fossils, and I still

guard them.

 

Author Biography: Polina Solovyeva is originally from Moscow, Russia, but currently studies at The Hotchkiss School in Lakeville, CT. She attended the New England Young Writers’ Conference at Breadloaf and graduated from the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio in Iowa City. She works at the Glass Kite Anthology literary journal as a Prose Reader and at the Siblíni Art and Literature Journal as a Junior Editor.