the dying drip
at 1:33am
he is presented to me as a kind of opportunity
reckless when he should be remorseful
willing to do all the wrong things
masquerading as someone who is right
somewhere
there is a boy and he is hurting, I think.
I wish I sipped water disguised as Bacardi
chucked the alcohol down the sink hours ago
more street smart than people pleaser
but still, he’s not as clever as you
maybe it’s his desperation
maybe it’s his loneliness
with a vice-like grip.
at 3:21am
he recollects the time you told him I was lovely
I try to let it wash over me
pollution at the bottom of a lake
but in reality I lose breath
I am dizzy for a second when the force of you hits me again
I nod at his comments about feminism, poetry and
whatever else he comes up with so he takes me upstairs
he isn’t different
he’ll never be different but he’d give anything to be
there is a drip of poison in my ear
inky black
the dying drip
and it tells me that somewhere there is a boy who is hurting, I think
it would feel good to hurt him more.
at 4:05am
I drop my key card as I try to let us in
he makes a comment about the pictures on my wall and
I want to scream at him that I don’t care
I don’t care
I don’t care what he thinks of them
he doesn’t care when he looks at them
it’s not why he’s here, it’s not what he wants to look at anyway
I wonder if you know that your friend has a tendency to say things you’d never dream of
act in ways you’d never dream of
I hope you stay blissfully considerate
in these moments
I am not a woman but a mask
I am not a mask but a canvas and
I hope I don’t stain too visibly
I hope I come out in the wash on your laundry day
he tells me I am good but to you I was your lovely
lovely
lovely girl
he looks at me like it’s his lucky day
but you knew it was your lucky lifetime
you knew we offered a type of magic to each other
and still you ran.
after
what else?
he left and I retched in the sink
shame powered the muscle movement to compose the never-again text
he replied during my feminism lecture and
I laughed at the irony
now he prides himself on living up to his definition of mature
as if warm smiles can reverse the way he went so cold
as if holding the door open stops him from being a liar
somewhere there is a boy and he is hurting, I think.
and all I want to do is take the pain away
sometimes I wonder if you’ll hate me when you find out but
at least that will be something
at least then I’ll know I haven’t lost my talent for making you feel
anything.