top of page


By Romy Morreo

Starts as it always does, cold kisses and spit on my neck, a suffocating weight pressing me down while hands grab and make me shudder, then slow, torturous exposure, a chill creeping across my flesh, bared to entitled eyes even as I curl around myself, arms shield, knees bent,

reminiscent of a protective swathe, and I close my eyes against the sensory revolt, squelching sounds like fish, slippery slick and loud enough

to make my teeth grind, the stench of stale breath in my face and that awful, musky odour, associated with pleasure, how dreadfully ironic;

sweat comes from exertion, sticks us together and prevents my recoil, and the breach tears from me an inhuman sob, lost under a baritone array of grunts and groans, my nails dig crescents in my palms, too hot, too messy, too ugly, a mingling of fluids that brings bile to

my throat, tastes like salt and sour oysters, an invasion, and moons pass before I’m finally afforded my space, while viscous remnants dribble onto the sheets and leave a permanent stain.


bottom of page