the wrestler

i don’t care if you leave me

bruised, purpled skin under blue

eyes. blood dripping down

your lip, marks made with

nails (i don’t remember 

what it’s like to feel 

safe here). i can feel you breathe 

above me, can feel the choke

before you grab my neck

(we will never be 

a love poem, only ever 

a wrestling). when you throw

me, drown me in throttle,

i will know what it’s like 

to be a rag doll: to have stitched

red lips drip insulin, your thirst

to my mouth (i can see your green

eyes tremble in the light).

Charlotte Covey

is from St. Mary’s County, Maryland. Currently, she is an MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Missouri – St. Louis. She has poetry published or forthcoming in journals such as ‘the minnesota review,’ ‘Salamander Review,’ ‘The Normal School,’ ‘The Boiler Journal,’ and ‘CALYX Journal.’ In 2015, she was nominated for an AWP Intro Journal Award. She is co-editor-in-chief of ‘Milk Journal.’

Contributions by Charlotte Covey