again—“
A slow clap comes from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder,
and Ben’s standing in the open doorway,
shirtless,
toothbrush hanging from his mouth,
brow raised.
“You just fuckin’ freestyle that?
“Some storytelling, pop-rap shit.”
I reach for my cig, tap ash into the tray,
drag, then blow smoke.
“Yeah, well. Drunk outta my mind.
“Brain won’t shut up unless I rhyme.”
He pulls the toothbrush from his mouth
and points it at me. “I’m ‘bout to crash. You need me to eat you out first before I pass out, or nah?”
I wince.
For the first time, I fucking wince.
And then I’m squinting at him.
At how hollow it sounds bouncing off the walls of my broken heart.
Confusion blows into his face,
and he tries again with a grin.
“Goin’ down in ten seconds either way, Baby.
“Could be on you. Just sayin’.”
He throws it out there, casual.
As if he's saying—can I borrow a light?
And for the longest time, I treated it the same.
A way to forget something,
or feel something different,
or get something over with,
but now it sounds wrong.
