I can yell and throw my shoes to dent the drywall, smudge the paint
and fling obscenities until you’re red faced with rage to match my fury,
but I’m flexing abs twenty minutes later while you’re holding me against
the wall, balls deep inside grunting.
My anger fuels sweat and twist to grind my clit against your jean button
where you unzipped to fuck (neither of us wanted to wait while you took them off). I laughed, when spent we fell to the ground and saw the smudge from my butt a few inches below the dent my thrown shoe made;
“I’ll patch it up tomorrow,” you say, stroking my head on your chest and
all memory of fight fled. But you don’t forget, and your grudge will boil
like a weed not rooted out to blossom another day.