MONDAY

Erin Murphy

Twelve hours celibate,
and suffering every second of it.
My body is starving,
I leave without breakfast.

I ride the bus,
rub myself against the grubby fabrics;
patterns melting into my thighs.
I let them climb inside.

Stepping off at my stop
the frigid driver gawks.
When the wind slaps my face
I moan out for more.

Manager Fuckface is late
- before me, for once.
Didn’t think I’d come, he says.
You look like you haven’t, either.