He’s still talking.
I’m picking a song.
Carly Rae Jepsen.Call Me Maybe.
The strings come in all pluck and bounce.
I drop my head back,
the manic pixie dream song taking over,
the music muting my screaming heart.
If Carly Rae gets a call before I come,
I’ll cut out his tongue and do it myself.
My eyes fall shut,
and I pretend I’m not here anymore.
I take myself anywhere else,
with someone else.
Back in the basement.Type No. 45.
But not the way it happened.
This time, it’s the couch against the wall.
The leather one I never sat in.
I’m sunk into it, dress hiked high,
back sweaty against heat-creased cushions.
The autograph wall is across from me?—
black ink, silver streaks, lipstick smears.
And thenAndrew.
He's on his knees,
between my thighs,
lifting my dress,
bunching it high around my hips,
mouth catching mine mid-breath?—
all open-mouthed,
slow-tongued,
warm and wet.
