I don’t say shit to her.
I've never told her about the past,
Raymond,
uncredited songs.
Because once you let someone see the cracks,
they start treating you different.
Like they're always one wrong move
from shattering you.
And Celie thinks I'm steel
with a touch phobia and a sex addiction.
A mouth full of attitude. In control.
Half-devil, half-best friend.
I don’t tell her about the guy from five days ago either.
I can’t say his name.
I can’t even think it,
refusing to trace the letters in my mind.
You don’t tell friends about stupid dreams.
And five days ago, he was a dream.
And then I woke up.
He wasn’t real.
Because if he was real, then he exists.
And if he exists, then he can hurt me.
Her eyes narrow,
and she taps her nails on the bar.
“Bitch, stop playin’. Look me dead in the eye and tell me nothin’s wrong. Go ‘head—try me.”
I bundle my hair into my fist,
lift it off my neck to cool it.
“Swear I’m fine.
“You know I hate people. And men.
“And any music after 2006.”
