Baby, I will part your lips like the sangria you drank on the night I told you we were platonic and you responded by rubbing my knee, obscured under heavy black bangs and eyeliner. I will leave you weightless. I laugh, having done this before, knowing you haven’t. We smile, intimate, separate. Drunk off of the true love of someone else, pretending to be ignorant is bliss. You proclaim you need me and I’m drunk on your guilt. “Who do you think you are?” I’m no one, baby, did you mistake me for someone respectable? Forgivable? Fuckable and forgettable? I will hold you as you tell me you’re not good enough for me, and in that moment you say it we both know it becomes true, breathing doubt into the solace of our silent bus rides and windburnt skin.
From the collection “Ladykilled and Manhandled”