After The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

I.
So you would love me,
I told you how I spat in the face
of the man who hit me for two years.
How I laughed, manic like the heroine,
even while he sank his teeth into my thigh.

II.
I thought of furniture made of bone.
A feather-covered killing floor.
The body’s meat hoisted onto a hook.
How I wanted you to twist my will,
drag me into a room, and slam the door.