Your lips were too heavy, your tongue too vicious, your hands too restless, your heart too loud, your sighs too forceful, your requests too pathetic. My blood was too full of liquor, my lungs too full of smoke, my skin too cold, my lips too raw, my hips too terrified, my protests too weak.
You crash landed on your bed (it seems you didn’t see me laying there first) and I kicked and I screamed and I clawed and I thrashed blood onto the walls (yours or mine?) and I recoiled and I attacked. You may be a weak little creature, but your arms carry the strength of a hundred battalions, and not even I, in my frantic oppression, could overtake you.
You whimpered, you sniffled, you wiped your nose, you curled into a hollow ball. I laughed wickedly, I dragged my battered body into the light, I saw the bruises and the scratches, I saw your skin and blood under my fingernails. I did not cry, I did not panic, I did not run away.
I heard you sob, then I heard you snoring. I poured the rest of your fruity liquor down the drain while staring at my eyes on fire in the mirror.
You may have taken me down, but I won this fight.