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  • Shawn Nacona Stroud

Cyber Sex

Your fingers should stroke

my keys once again, tap in

conjured adjectives

for your lust-bulked thoughts

to this or that

whomever. You’ve screwed

me with each letter

pressed. At first

I reveled in it. Listen:

this is our rhythm, those

clicks and clacks, thrusting

us toward climax. Your wife’s

snores filtering in from your bedroom.

I think I must have loved it

in the way some women burn

to prey on married men. Over time

I began to wear on you—

you handled me roughly and turned

offish simply because

I was the only one really

there. Finally,

you started to neglect me entirely,

let dust cloud my vision

until I was forced to watch you with her

like an aging mistress

watches their defeat

through slow-forming cataracts.

I realize now that it must be her or I.

I’ve been stockpiling your messages;

ammunition I’ll employ

to blitz the bitch with. Soon,

I shall unleash war, my bombs,

the full shebang—she’ll perish

under my afflictions then

and you’ll begin to touch me again.

—Shawn Nacona Stroud

Previously appeared in Issue # 66 of Down Dirty Word


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