Whatever Comes After

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What was the point of kindness if in the end
we’ve both choked each other up against walls

if my pussy doesn’t feel like marshmallows or
something soft anymore. I much desire a new 

victim to write love poems for me on the fridge.
Someone who might let me suck him off on the

couch without looking at naked pictures of himself
or of me from a much thinner time. Through your 

cynicism, I suspect you too might want a blank page
a woman who doesn’t know the contours of 

your fist, who doesn’t make you clench your
jaw so tight. I still shiver when you make a joke 

with your hands, still beg for you to do something
worth it, still struggle with whether I want 

something better or worse for my next act.

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Selena Cotte is a poet, journalist, and shapeshifter living in Chicago by way of Orlando. Her poems are published or forthcoming in journals such as Peach Mag, HAD, Rejection Letters, and others. She can be found online @selenacotte, wherever you think that may work.

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