Dean Serravelle

he carries a gun to protect her from guys like    him    9mm gage    warm from a bullet he fired to impress her away from silent rapists like me whom he claims to know the psychology of like his brother who jerked off on his face to make his friends laugh   liquid killers he’s formed gangs with whose identities melt away with fortune cookie truths a stepfather in jail buying pot from an undercover cop in a Halloween costume and not the feared drug lord he mentions in the same breath as a friend locked and burned in a car for kids to watch around the corner from the flat chested girl with oversized hips nose hoops and a bolt in her tongue the tattoo of a scorpion butterfly on her thick ankle pregnant with his child pregnant with your child and the clapp your first time you didn’t realize it would hurt that much in front of his friends and the hurt wouldn’t go away even after you were alone and had your legs spread upright for the nurse in a stained lab coat to feel inside with sticky latex hands for a wart the size of an almond    eyes that cry puss when you threaten to leave him hands that squeeze     your neck    the phlegm in your sleep when you have kilt and knee sock dreams about crucifixes you should have revered above drink and drown nights bleach blond cellulite competitions and tears for every slow song you’ve heard him botch the lyrics to not realizing that the lies are less sweet with the salt of restraining orders and a daughter who asks about her daddy over flaming candles