You want to make a movie

in the shower.

I’ll slide behind you

bent over,

hands to ankles.

One hand on your side,

I’ll glide slowly

back and forth

upon your spine.

In a minute,

I’ll have the audience

think I smoked Crack

with Norman Bates,

after stabbing you—

so viciously rapid

in the back,

like you stabbed me

in the back,

when I came home

late on our anniversary,

only to discover

our so-called marriage

getting sexually attacked.

I’ll shower in blood,

immoral baptism—

self-forgiveness.

Arms hanging,

legs sagging,

I’ll hold you up—

mixing a little sex in gore,

before cutting you

to the next scene,

sawed in half—

limbs dismembered.

By William Andre Sanders