running down the middle of me most of the time

stilettos steeped in puddle, hair, dripping, stuck in streaks across my face, tears, running, mating frenetically with the rain, tire folded on itself, car leaning into the beating sheets of rain while i stomp and shout: my early morning tantrum.

and he could care less, hubristically waxing in the back of her car, relishing his alpha maleness, making space in his repository for new images--later masturbatory fodder, since it's never enough, since fucking nightly doesn't solve it--he's still mounting me in his sleep, pressing firmly, forcefully into me as he dreams about something, someone i've never seen, he's never touched. it's not enough, enough, enough. he could care less.

selfishly, he's hanging up, ignoring. and she's calling me four, five, six times to check to make sure i'm ok, so maybe i need a female after all.

and i said, baby, it's a problem that these dirty, dumb mechanics offer more support than my damn husband. and, silent, he then said, well, what is there to do. they, at least, can rotate my tires. they, at least, know what they've been missing. they, at least, anticipated the storm and braced me against it, offering towels, coffee, discounted reassurance.

and he could care less. stop bitching if you don't know what you want me to do.

i know i need more than this, more than you. i know i need somebody who isn't constantly distracted by every xx who passes by. i know i need someone whose emotion can effuse close to mine. he can't be a mindreader, but i can't spell out the obvious all the time. time to stop identifying. time to do.

baby, i love you; that's why i'm leaving. i can't hover in constant competition with your more immediate needs.