Magdalene

Late at night, apartment silent
I reach for my slim companion
of rubber and metal — 
feel it vibrate as it fills me up with curious validation
notification by notification.

 Ever since I was small, there has been a hole in me
begging to be filled
with praise. It hungers. It yearns. It throbs.
It needs whispered words from the mouths of men.

 I could live off the crumbs of a discarded “I love you”
or a thoughtless “you’re beautiful” for the rest of my life.

 But your disgrace is hidden
under creased bedsheets, a roadmap
with denial as the only destination 
the shame that loving me brings.

You do not have to look me in the eye
or hold my hand.
In the dark, you can pretend that I am someone else
as you wrestle with the reality of my seven devils.

 This cruel reputation precedes me — instant assumption
of my fallen state, my easy virtue.
You see my painted face
body a carnal altar
and pray that I live up to the contradiction in your mind:
virgin-whore, on my knees, pleading penance for sins
I have never committed but which you construct for me
force me to act out
in the dim chapel between your thighs.

 I wait — three agonizing days
to hear from you again, clutch my phone like a rosary
say your name, a litany in the dark.

 Love me, love me, love me.
 
I’ll wait by this tomb forever
wash your feet with my dark curls
leave a stigmata of lipstick smears around your wrists
and ankles. Just don’t let me be lonely.

In my mind, every one-night stand is a soul-mate
an answer to a lifelong prayer that can only end in
unholy ghosting

a prediction on my lips
that no prophet can untangle.