me, YOU, and poverty

By Ross Collier

it’s always been me, You, and Poverty.
the irony of NOT—for the first time in my life
crave
the sensation of partaking in a threesome.
as i solemnly lie here
in a cot
in a bedroom
not my own or by choice—
recollect on how You ran a train on me . . .
violating me
viciously having Your way with my black body.
You did to me whatever You pleased
from every possible direction
and every possible position
especially, Poverty . . .
i can still feel Your calloused, befouled hands around my neck—
strangling the life from my lungs—
forcing tears to run from my bloodshot eyes—
going in and out of consciousness.
i question this love You say You have for me.
bloodied and bruised
fearful and quivering
an ugly position
in this cot that you have given me.
console me
relieve me of pain
with Your soft words and promises.
the way You cradle me after all the trauma inflicted upon me is
almost
orgasmic . . .

Break and heal . . .
Break and heal . .
Break and heal.
Break and heal—
Break and heal—
Break and heal—
Break and heal!

i am left scarred
wondering where these marks of injury have come from
but as i open my bloodied, swollen eyes
all i see is—
me, You, and Poverty.

---

Ross Collier

6/9/2020