Below Into the Deep

I am indestructible.
You think that means
can not be destroyed,
but it means that I
will not be destroyed.

Last November, when drunk
(but not because of it),
I almost fell in when a girl kissed me.
Her tongue traced circles around mine,
mulled me over. Her hands were soft,
but firm; she pulled my face into hers,
an abyss if I let it swallow me.

I followed her
into the bathroom at Vagabonds;
she fingered me in the handicap stall, me
backed up against a Sharpied “fuck Matt.”
I had never liquefied like that, never orgasmed
so quickly. She pressed her number into my hand,
scrawled on a wet BevNap.

I think her name was Kate,
maybe it was Kara.
I never called her, although I wanted to.
I still feel her breath, hot in my ear,
reverberating through me.

I returned to my firm, rigid seat,
beside this man who claimed me.
He reached for my hand, interlaced
my fingers with his, filling up my space,
squeezing it out of me. He asked,
“Are you OK?” and I bit my lip,
my tongue. I nodded.
His nails dug into my skin.

I want to be bad for good,
but being indestructible
means don’t self-destruct.

When I learned I was pregnant
with his baby, this man with the claws,
I nibbled the inside of my cheek while
I waited on hold with the clinic,
calm music playing like a command.
When he got home: “how was your day?”
I shook the newspaper like it was
just another one, a Monday with a high
of 55. My tongue was raw.

I hid the clinic handout
underneath the tire below my trunk,
undiscoverable—this secret me.

Standing on a bridge above dark,
choppy water, I shredded those words
that soothed and pained: words about living
after life has been sucked from your body.
I tossed them below into the deep.
I decided not to jump.
Because I am indestructible.


Holly Pelesky is a student in the University of Nebraska MFA Program. She maintains a blog, a Twitter, and an Instagram account, often at the expense of her smutty writing.

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