Living in Sunnydale

by Gal Pacino

its hot, dark
i lie on a bare mattress that lies on the floor that lies in an empty room
i am bare
the room is barren, like me, hospitable only to death
the death of us
the death of the little life inside me
are they the same?
that little life that once was ours
this little life used to be yours.

i haven't been able to clean the home that used to be yours, clean myself,
i used to be yours.
the blades of the ceiling fan cut through the air like freddie preying on a fresh, dreaming victim
my solitary confinement in this enormous empty black hole cuts through me like freddie,
punctures long, yet light, like little miss pink
my skin no longer skin, but scales of searsucker
permanent, unfading slits and lumps, congregating in groups up and down my landscape
represented by deep patches of maroon on the aerial map of my rolling hills
those hills used to be yours
i used to be yours
the searsucker has taken your place on my skin,
giving way to this wrinkled, forgotten scrap on a sweatshop floor.


salty sweat drips from his furrowed brow and onto my upper lip-
it is salty, tangy, hostile to my sensibilities.
i choke as he tongues the back of my throat as if trying to induce my vomiting
he continues
on a mission
grinding, thrusting, pounding me into paralysis with his fat, throbbing cock wrecking me on the mattress,
the mattress that used to be yours.
i used to be yours.
the sweat used to be yours.
now i am quivering heap of confusion, delusion, stinking of abandonment
and the musk of any man who will have me,
fucking me on this pile of garbage
i am a pile of garbage
you made this pile of garbage.
this garbage used to be yours.

its a relief whenever they leave, but eventually the taste of consensual rape disappears and the fear
comes back.
mister wahoo comes out of the closet and there is nowhere to run when i am so alone,
only the needle to scare him off.
but that's what scared you off.
my fear used to be yours.
i used to be yours.
what have i done to be so alone in the wreaking dark?



Gal Pacino has never read Sylvia Plath.