Plastic? 

Paper. 

Thank you.

You over-estimated the groceries you could carry.

You figure, as long as the bags hold out, you can leave a couple at your front door and come back for them. So you figure, so you leave two bags, jog up 3 long flights of stairs, and  kick your apartment open with your sneakered foot.  You mean to put your stuff in the kitchenette and run back down for the tampons, cat food, and way, way, way too many rice cakes.   You are not boody-licious, so it's still in to be thin.

Two Weight Watcher patties, Dexatrim, Phen-fen, and a Slimfast shake to go.

So, You over-estimated the groceries you could carry.

That glass bottle of apple juice did it every time. You stick the yogurt in the freezer then you hear his voice. 

Smooooth, like a wannabe Sunday night DJ.

Yo,  don't worry #6, I got it.

And suddenly your apartment number is your name and because

You over-estimated the groceries you could carry.

You run downstairs to find Bigger,  the neighbor's football-playing boyfriend, stuffing fallen boxes of oatmeal and uh-uh, tampons into your grocery bags. Luna & her revolving bedroom.

No I got it, Bigger!

You bellow, angry at yourself for always  being so paranoid.

Damn Shorty, you must be having a hard-ass day?

You nod as Bigger swings your bags easily up past the second floor all the way to the 3rd &  you gotta admit, sure does make things easier having a guy around.

Thanks  Bigger, so what do I owe you?

You say, standing between your door & Luna's door and you take your bags...

Nowhere.

Bigger pushes your tampons and rice cakes and apple juice through you and shoves you into your safe space, owning it.

Bigger what the hell're you doing?!?

You can't get past his blade.  Your cat screams because the football player with a runny nose  wrenches your head backwards and slams your door closed with your nose.  Your warm blood paints your face.

Fist/ after fist/ after fist/ after fist/  pounds/ in/ to/ your/ uterus.

Stop weeping, bitch.

Which death will you choose?

Your head hits the floor and a serrated knife snatches the skin on your throat.  Then in a moment that seems sickly Seinfeld, Bigger can't hold the knife and get your jeans-n-panties down over your wide hips. He orders you to

Take them off. Slowly.   Slowly.   Yeah like that.                                                 

No.  NO Bigger, please don't do this. 

Your legs and hands do what he says because his dagger splits your tongue. #32 smashes the spit out of you,  stomps your thighs open & then bangs something molded and ugly into your flesh  on the crimson crochet mat his girlfriend gave you for Kwanzaa.

You over-estimated the groceries you could carry.

And now you're carrying much more as Bigger's dry thrusting holds your limp body prisoner with all of the charisma that is a knife.  And my mind/ won't/die.

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