Andrew pressed into its cushions.
Crates of vinyl stack high across the wall.
A collection of turntables lined up on a console table, one open and holding Bruce Springsteen.
Guitars slouched in the corners in their stands.
His bed’s a navy linen world,
with plaid sheets and walnut wood.
And there’s a door leading straight outside.
I walk up to the turntable and move the needle.
The record spinsI’m On Fire,
and the song follows me to the bathroom.
I undress,
tie my hair up as steam creeps across the glass,
stare at myself in the mirror,
not recognizing the girl staring back at me.
I don’t look like the girl from the penthouse.
The one in the gilded cage to keep her safe,
her rules, her contract written across iron bars.
She’s not here.
I don’t know where she is.
This girl is one I’ve never seen before,
standing in his bathroom,
her cage unlocked,
skinned raw,
exposed to anything that can hurt her.
A towel’s on the counter next to his electric toothbrush.
A tee and sweatpants stacked beside it.
Another toothbrush sealed in plastic on top?—
which is fucking weird.
So I open the drawers.
There’s a pile of disposable toothbrushes.
