“Next time,” I call back, stumbling into the next block over.
But his voice follows me down the street,
“Wait—nah, c'mon. For real?
“This fuckin’ girl—Jesus."
His voice fading,
“She’s…Shit. What the fuck…”
Neon signs bleed into puddled gutters?—
red, green, electric blue.
The color smears across the pavement, and a saxophone spills out from an open window somewhere above a bodega, a drunk ballad laced with heartbreak.
Then Celie’s voice cracks,
splinters,
breaks apart.
“I wished Drake loved me.”
It spits out of her as if it's been locked up for days.
It hits me too hard and fucks up my heart.
Shit.There it is.
Stage three: The Pity Party
2:02 AM
This is why I don’t do relationships.
Love is not romantic.
It’s Stockholm syndrome.
I breathe out slow,
digging into my purse for my cigs.
Djarum Blacks. Menthol clove.
Sucking cold fire. Perfect.
I only smoke when I need to feel something.
Or nothing.
Depends on the night.
I cup my hands to spark the lighter.
Wind’s sliding between buildings,
