On your period that week, we fucked in the shower to keep the house clean.
Some of the times we never made it into the shower and ended up on the bath-room sink, me trying to avoid my own eye contact in the mirror, or on the toilet,
you pushing me down the salmon pink seat.
Thinking of dead puppies and trying not to focus on your beautiful bleeding silk
thighs, scared shitless, I came inside you on the rocking pot.
In the shower after, I washed your back and babbled like an idiot trying to
remember
the nuances of ovulation. You told me it was going to be ok, and that you were
tired of fucking in the bathroom.
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