I loved licking
her asshole.
The reasons for me loving
to lick her asshole
were twofold
really…
1) Her asshole tasted just like
a really, really good
chocolate milkshake/
the scene from the movie “Titanic”
where Jack draws Rose
wearing nothing but the
“Heart of the Ocean” necklace.
2) Whenever I licked her asshole
I felt at home.
Or, like, my tongue
felt at home.
Like my tongue woulda received
all of its mail
there.
Like my tongue woulda moved in
with its wife
and then had kids
and then raised its family
there.
Like two Jehovah’s Witnesses
woulda knocked on the door
of her asshole
at, like, 8 A.M.
one Sunday morning
and then my tongue woulda answered the door
and began screaming,
“Are you serious?
Are you fuckin’ serious?
Knocking on my door
and waking me up at 8 in the morning
on a weekend?
I work all week,
God dammit,
and when the weekend finally comes
I wanna be able to sleep in!
Get outta here!
Get the shit outta here!”
But my tongue
doesn’t lick her her asshole
anymore.
My tongue
is homeless.
It lives in a cardboard box
inside my mouth
and sometimes people open my mouth
and cram change inside of it
and then they go,
“Promise me
you’re only gonna buy food
with this…”
and my tongue goes,
“Yes, I promise you
I’m only gonna buy food
with this.”
But my tongue
never does.
It just buys booze.
Booze,
booze
and more booze.
I miss licking
her asshole.
I miss my tongue
not being homeless.
I miss how even the dirtiest/
most “disgusting” parts of her
felt like home
to me.
And they say
home
is where the heart
is.
And,
if that’s true,
a large part of me
is still inside her asshole
where it belongs
and where it will stay
until she decides
to shit me
out.