turns at the waist,
and lights the tip for me.
“Y’know I don’t sleep when you’re out.
“Can’t. I start picturin’ shit.”
He sets the lighter back on the side table and leans in to me, fingertips floating up to my face?—
then stop.
I lift my chin, a silent go-ahead,
and his thumb brushes across my cheekbone,
smearing mascara.
The Boys weren’t built for attachment.
They were built to feed the orgasm addiction and stay out of my bed.
To soothe the ache I callLittle Death.
But sometimes,
when the night’s too long and lonely,
I think if I had to keep one, it’d be Brandon.
I don't love him or care about him,
but I can stand him.
He doesn’t make my skin crawl.
Which is the closest I’ve ever been to comfort.
“Shit, Baby?—
“this must be what it looks like when you cry.”
He says it with a grin,
but it’s the one worn at funerals.
“Eyes all red, makeup runnin’.
“Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”
And men wonder why
I never let them see me cry.
Not in bars,
or beds,
or bathrooms,
