Under the Influence of Mrs. V
We find ourselves in a sad hotel room
The color palette of sadness is brown – beige
With the persistent aroma
Of strangers, cleaning products
And that faint cigarette smell
That refuses to die in rooms smoke-free for decades.
We sit next to each other
On the mustard colored couch
I brought Mrs. V with me, he says
To keep us company
We give in to Mrs. V, times three for me
Mrs. V times four for him.
Our heads are weightless
We go lie down in a bed we don’t own
I rest my head on his shoulder, touch his skin
And rest my eyes on his freckle farms for arms
I have grown to love
But he doesn’t know that.
I am in a state of constant amusement
Haha funny this and funny that
Forming full sentences and making sense are chores I refuse
I avoid thinking, I can only feel
The warmth, the softness of his skin
I close my eyes, I am starting to float.
I float on and on
Like every summer on familiar warm waters
With skin burning under the Mediterranean sun
It feels smooth and effortless, I float on
And we talk about babies and puppies
As we always do when we reach certain heights.
Mrs. V is deep into me
Her presence strong and intense
He is running his fingers over my body
Intensity and arousal at the tiny point of contact
How it would be to make love, I wonder
With Mrs. V our common mistress, our savior.
My skin starts moving, expands and contracts
An army of monkeys jumping out of my skin
I float on, the monkeys linger
I close my eyes, I fall into Morpheus’ arms
But my sleep interrupted by
Itchy skin, needy for scratching attention.
Face, leg, arm, every body part is an itchy scream
What is wrong baby he asks
With his softest voice
Is this normal I ask
What is happening to me
Tiny creatures are crawling out of my skin.
I move back in to a sleeping mode
My dreams intense in colors saturated and rich
We are together in a field of wheat, he’s tied to a rope
We struggle to run away from the dreaded man
I have a knife with me, I see
We come to a stop, I need to cut the rope.
It is taking a long time, the knife angle is all wrong
I reposition the knife, I cut the rope faster
But it is still too late
The dreaded man has caught up
He snatches the knife from my hand
Raises his arm and buries the knife deep into me.
One, two, three stabs
My mouth is agape but there is no sound
Mrs. V will bring you high and push you low
She will desert you in the mercy of jumping monkeys
And knife wielding men
A cruel, betraying mistress, without remorse, without fail.
Acidgalore 