the staiwell

when they made love
it wasn't making
love at all
it was something else,
she would
tell the police,
how yellow
the walls were she
told them, the exit
sign in red
over the closed door,
the cracked ceiling
where rust
leaked out
and him on her,
pressing his body
as a stranger would.
his face
rough against hers,
his hot breath.
she leaned
on the steps
her hand
finding a broken
shard of glass,
the bottom
of a bottle.
the pain mixed
with odd pleasure,
the blood warm down
her arm while
she listened
for footsteps
coming to save
her, those sounds
that could
save her, those
sounds that
never came.