Pity by Erin Belieu

Pity

Once I took it in my mouth, I had to admit, pity tastes good, like the sandwiches

they make in French patisseries, the loaf smeared with force-fed organs, crust
that shreds the skin behind your teeth. So bless the tongue's willingness,

for it chooses like a wartime whore, and it's the picky who end up dead against the wall. And bless also the bouncers,

who all last summer grew kindly ashamed those nights I fell backward off their stools. When A. said, "People are generous with ugly things and you're the Goodwill drop box,"

I counted the turns I've taken on that swing—

the handouts I've offered to the fucked-up and broken. It's the playground rule,

everyone gets a ride: then you're the girl at the party trashing the patio furniture, or the man, later that night, pushing her down in the street.

—Erin Belieu, from Black Box