Exultant from a few Tuesday night
Adderall highs, strung out on sleepless
Spotify, we retreat to your car, lighting a few
bowls and I find myself in a mirror—
lacquered eyes and speaker feedback
lead me along the wall, fingers
catching the telephone jack.
You lower me slowly, cool,
cotton sheets against my shoulders
and while you kiss my ribs,
I remember two nights ago—you fell

asleep before I even unhooked my bra
in a half-assed, half-dreaded, C+ cup effort.
But I look at my black socks, chew
my nails away, and drag the jagged lines
along your spine, the textbook
I don’t want to return.

We’ve sat on loveseats for hours,
days, crying over mediocrity,
the –isms, drunken mistakes meant to haunt
us long past under-grad. In class we
discuss darkness, the psyche, and morality,
but I just want to draw my uneven
hearts in the margins.