Don’t tell me your name
Don’t tell me your name;
I won’t remember it anyway
because I killed those brain cells
two or three bottles back.
Just call me Sunday morning regret
and scream whatever you want
in the darkness.
You told me that you left
your vanilla suit at the cleaners
but you won’t need it
on this bad boy escape.
All I want from you
can be had without words
and what you need
requires no long thoughtful gaze.
I want to give you stubble
burns on your thighs,
rolling back spasms
and make you question
everything your mother told you.
In return I’ll take
your nail track brands,
lipstick smudges
and your lingering guilt
home with me in the morning.
You can be a slut for a day
and I will wear my Mickey Rourke mask
until we wash off the night
and go back to our assigned seats.
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