Take a Seat, Pride

It always fails to place itself correctly,
my pride.
Or my lack thereof.
Very rarely does it walk into the bedroom
or interrupt love.
Yes, baby,
yank my hair like that.
Enslave me.
Bite me.
Fuck me.
Hurt me.
Oh, please hurt me.
Sex just always shoves pride right back out the door.
It prefers itself abandoned.
Stripped bare.
Naked.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
to suit body and skin.

And love,
it never cared for pride much either.
A love without grit,
without wantonness,
seemed like a love not worth having.
A defeat of it’s purpose,
in a way.
Oh,
but my pride found a good home at work.
It got in the way quite a bit.
It wouldn’t let anyone tell me what to do
and when they did,
it would circle around me.
Pacing.
Push up all the little hairs on my back,
Right up around my neck.

When people started to call me stubborn
and a snob,
but could walk all over me once close,
I knew we had to fight it out,
my pride and I.
I sat it down,
looked it in the eye.
I rattled at it,
tried to make it understand.
That it was running us into the ground.
That if love pushed it away,
it needed to push a little harder back.
I needed it there,
I said,
putting a hand on it’s shoulder.
It hung its head,
unusual for pride.
Took my hand,
squeezed it tight.
Promised to stretch itself around a little.

Well,
we’re working on it.

But I still like rough sex.