Everything in Five Minutes

He says, Everything. After she asks,
What’d ya want? Confused, she just leans over

giving him a better angle. A good angle can mean
everything. There are a few things

Chica knows: what men see in her is not one of them.
What does he mean everything? She grabs the sides of the grimy,

greasy locker-room bench which was once light oak, but now
is stained a dull grey from motor grease to give herself

some leverage. With each thrust she squeezes her eyelids
tighter to clear the mind so she can concentrate

on cumming. Each thought moves like a haunting. Ghosts
from the past appear showing that secret friendship

between the small girl she was who loved
playing on swings at the playground and that man

who showed her what little death means, before she grasped
the word sex. Behind her closed eyes she sees herself

waiting all day on Sundays, roasting in a pink floral snowsuit
for her father to take her sled riding. He rarely made face,

when he did he always had some sorry excuse why he didn’t
keep his promises. She never heard him

speak of love, not once. There are things best kept
unsaid like the thoughts draining out of her, while holding

the head of her middle school playmate as he died
from a stab wound to the heart: that bloody mess

in the glittering morning snow. The phantoms of the past
come and go in waves though her. She wraps her arms around

herself nightly just to feel embraced. Drugged one night, a man did
things she’s grateful she can’t remember. No matter how

much she showers, dirty never washes clean, so she takes
long hot soaks instead of scrubbing. The pieces of her are all scattered

in things no one hears. Can she give everything, when she can’t
even be free enough to give what she knows? She finally finds a quiet

piece of her—in that disgusting locker-room—that forgets
about all the poltergeists of bodies so she could

get that release of pleasure. He says, I’m done. Standing up,
she says, What the hell! Everything only lasted five minutes.

Godamnit, now everythin’s runnin down my fuckin leg.


Snapshot_20150616Tracie Morell was raised on the Savannah by a pack of feral gazelles. At a young age, she learned to bend iron bars with naught but her teeth and sheer determination. During her school years, she consistently wowed her teachers and mentors with her ability to dodge skepticism while performing feats of whimsical magic. In adulthood, she has birthed miniscule acrobats who assist her in her day-to-day tasks of smashing the banality of various poverties. In her spare time, she enjoys semaphore, scrimshaw, collecting rejection letters, and working on cars for the love of artistry and craftsmanship, despite her loathing of vehicular landscapes and the smell of ethanol. She resides in a land beyond your reach. Only Ben Frasier knows how to find her.

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