or the backseat of a black sedan.
You cry in front of a man,
he romanticizes your ruin,
starts thinking he’s special for witnessing your tears.
Thinks hemattersto you.
And if he matters to you,
he has some sort of power over you.
Fuck. That.
“Only you make pain sound pretty,” I say.
“Trust me—I don’t cry.
“I combust, then collapse.
“And it’s not hot.”
I flick ash.
“It’s horrifying.”
My cigarette crackles as I pull in another drag.
The nicotine burns in my lungs,
stings the back of my throat.
I hold it here while holding his stare,
both burning and seeping into spaces I don’t want to feel.
Then I blow out into the cold September air and watch smoke disappear.
I shouldn’t be smoking,
but lately I want to burn holes into things.
In myself. My lungs. In the silence.
In the nights I spend pretending I don’t want more than this.
His green eyes beam through the smoke,
something in them cracking.
Then he leans in slow,
mouth hovering near mine.
I shake my head—“Brandon,” I warn.
But his mouth catches mine anyway.
