Slit
Everyone knows monogamy bores men so every night for her husband she was a different woman in bed.
As a frantic housewife, she wrote out To Do lists below his navel with her tongue. Dry cleaners, bank, yellow rubber gloves, feather duster, lasso, perfumed ligatures, Chinese finger trap.
As a disco queen, she snorted coke with tight-wound bills and faked more than her false eyelashes.
As Joan of Arc, she scorched him with the heat of her body and panted out her thirst for him until they were both overtaken by the flames.
As an Amazon warrior, she lopped off her breast and handed it to him though he said he would have preferred her heart.
So she slit herself from throat to gut and bared her blazing chest.
From pleasure, he began to cry and, she, touched by this display of emotion, bled to death before he could lick her wound.
The eve his first wife died, he took a young actress for his bride and she painted herself like a slit-up corpse.
