Tonight, I know he is no good for me
but I stay because he is a small campfire

and I’ve been ice
defrosting in the moonlight

He tells me my voice takes him under
and when he smooths his palms under my blouse

He takes it off in one gesture
I shiver in his warmness

I want to stay in the arms that scorches me

So, I let him fully undress me
and expose my nakedness as a void

He kisses me 

to help me remember I am not beautiful
my body begins to shrink


He takes me to a bed where there is no rest
I rattle with him

His moans overpower the sirens of the street
and shakes his body in a variety of motions

until his fire becomes ash
and I become vapor

Neither of us have won

I slide to the edge of the bed
while he snores the stars in their bullet hole spaces

I dress and whimper
crawling into night

between catastrophes of tiny sidewalk
that not even my tears can fill

Photo by Muels on Unsplash

Kay Bell

Kay Bell is the author of two collections of poetry: Cry Sweat Bleed Write (Lily Poetry Review Books, 2020) & Diary of an Intercessor (Finishing Line Press, 2021). She received her BA and MFA from The City College of New York where she teaches English Composition. To connect with her visit: