Possum

You were my poison of choice
I would expand myself to feel your force and friction
Play dead on the creaking floor
With a leaking smile
Rug burn on the back of the thighs

"Doesn't it feel good to be bad?" he says
"Yes" I say under a thrusted whisper
He repeats himself
Taking over the masturbation
Passengers side

"Doesn't it feel good to be bad?"
I don't reply as my cheek pushes up and down
Against the window

The lips parted
Breath shortened
Hands between the steering wheel
Thumbs forcing from both sides
As I fold into the wave of a rapists sandwich