Angelica is a writer and editor providing medical news and content to America's clinicians. She received her B.S. in Nursing from Northeastern University and her M.S. in Narrative Medicine from Columbia University. When she's not keeping a pulse on healthcare she's reading her poetry at open mics and salsa dancing through San Francisco.
ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR, MARCH 2ND, 2022
A cruel, vendetta-fueled spasm takes me from my sleep
and makes a home in my belly,
a moat of blood pooling hours before my knowledge.
“What do you want?” I ask any god
between shallow, defeated breaths.
“To know what you are made of.”
If not for train horns blaring,
a sleepy street would know how I sound
when your diligent mouth is on my breast.
The last train to San Francisco comes
and goes and Monday morning is
no longer a threat when I am whining
on your lap, arching with the shadows.
Dessert in my mouth, we cannot wait
to swallow before sharing this opening.
What’s yours I want to be mine.
Your nose roams in search of my sweet.
We part just to call minutes later and
let our breaths jerk and tumble,
the way our legs would after you fill me
with the hardest wish you’ve ever had.