I saw her sitting on the curb with somebody, smoking an extra cigarette so she could stay an extra four minutes. That's how long it takes her to smoke each time. He lit one next to her and they talked about whatever reasons they had to complain that day. What's worse than knowing exactly what's going to happen next? This train's whistle is wailing and begging me to get off the tracks, but the ropes are tied just tightly enough so I can wriggle and squirm and scream but it's not enough to roll over the rail. I'll see him lying next to her admiring long black hair and a colorful elephant tattoo. The scent of stale smoke radiates from their lips as he leaves for the night — with their teeth stained a little darker now from reheated coffee. Soon they'll empty every bottle in the place and slip out of their clothes between dark red sheets stained from her teeth sinking into my neck. I'll be buried in the churchyard, my last rites read by a thief.

trudging through mud waist-deep
these lungs are billows of smog and
these hands are brittle claws
world-breaker, I am fate unseen
through the clearest of lenses,
and the most acute of baubles
simple phrases caught in raw
and searing throats
with these ideas, my brain molds
an even more bothersome equation

Ah ah ah. Not yet.
Popcorn ceiling instead.
Eve curls up. She's got
tiny ankles. And he,
whoever he may be tonight,
does what they always do.
He traces that funny, bony
sphere. He apologizes.
Tells her it's because
she's so beautiful.
His forwardness is
a compliment.
She reminds him of
this character from a Fitzgerald
novel -- not an obvious
one, of course.
She says wow or oh yeah? or
you're just being sweet.
She asks him if he smokes.
He's trying to quit.
Yeah, I have some in
my hoodie pocket there.
She usually removes the dress here.
Just out of his reach.
Taking more time than necessary.
Bent over, digging through the pocket,
she listens for the heavy exhale.
She walks to the bathroom.
Light on.
Door open.
He gives it a moment.
His shirt is off now.
His elbow is on the door frame.
Eve, you know you're not inhaling right?
And here, she let's him teach her how,
as she did with the last one.
By the end of the cigarette,
she's french inhaling.
Had a good coach.
She runs water over
the tip to put it out and tosses it
in the trashcan.
Of course he brings his body against
hers.
He starts with a shoulder massage.
You can go lower.
He skips the bra.
He runs his fingers
just under the lace waistband.
Asking permission.
Are you going to **** me or what?

Jay wants to say he loves her
when he sees her trying to smoke.
He's not sure if he does yet,
but he hasn't said it in so long.
She's got these small ankles.
Her abs are uneven.
There's a mole on her hipbone.
No, no it's just like breathing.
Just breathe for me. Without smoking.
The lungs, right? Take the smoke
into your lungs.
Oh my gawd. Ha ha ha. She coughs.
Jay rubs her shoulders.
She smells of tobacco and coconut-based lotion.
And he goes lower.
And he doesn't want to be too forward.
But she says **** so softly it makes
his hands go mad.

He's shaky. Panting. At the end of it all.
They made love atop the comforter.
Eve burns. Calls it afterglow.
She feels like she's absorbed all
the room's energy.
She puts herself to the edge
of the bed to cool.
You're so soft, she says.
Surprised, genuinely. He made love
so slow. Maybe a little too much eye
contact. He lifts up the blankets,
and asks her to crawl underneath.

She didn't say his name during ***.
And Jay's afraid he said hers too much.
She bit him. Too dramatic for his taste.
And at the end, he feels cold,
as if all the love inside him
has been deposited.
She tells him he is soft.
Probably the loose skin, he says.
Used to be a fat guy. Well, fatter.
When she doesn't respond,
he lifts up the comforter;
crawls underneath.
No thanks, I'm on fire, she says.
He decided not to say I love you.
But he reaches for her.
She faces him.

Patience. You're alright, Jay.

It was nice to be invited, but now I regret agreeing to this.

The light in here is too artificial; the vibrant pink almost strangles the dark blue before transforming into an eerie green. It is strobing, spinning, scanning, pointing, observing the rapid decline of morality around the room. It's not even comforting like light should be, it is assaulting the senses and coaxing for trouble.

The floor is sticky, lined with a layer of spilt drinks and the trash the bottom of shoes bring in; cigarette butts, chewed gum, ***** and hopelessness. The walls are plush but I don't want to touch them- I don't understand why they are sticky too...perhaps one too many drinks thrown at ****** guys?

The roof is low, caving in on everyone inside. The room has about 400 more people than it can hold, and I am being smothered by un asked for touches and nudges, pulls and pushes. I can feel someone thrusting into the back of me while the couple in front (who don't know each other) almost fall on top of me in a desperate attempt to show the room that they have no cares- they will have *** right in front of you if they have to.

The music is way too loud. And not the fun sort of too loud that's often cranked up at parties or in the car, but shatteringly loud, drowning out any attempt of speech. Why should these people care? They don't care who they let under their clothes, or what their name might be. And why am I not like that? Why am I the only one in this God forsaken night club not throwing my body at someone. I mustn't be normal.

The girls in the bathroom are smoking **** and swallowing pills- they aren't even trying to be secretive about it- the sink is filled with all types of substances. I can't find a corner to go and just be until it is time to leave.

I don't understand why I am the only one like this. I tried my best to look pretty tonight. I poured hot wax on my skin, layering paper on top to latch onto my hair and rip it out. I used expensive products, layer after layer just to cover my spots. Even though I am allergic to it, I took a pencil to my eye lids and pulled my lashes with a mascara brush. I didn't eat so as to not smudge my lipstick. I squeezed myself into the only dress I own, the one I can't breathe out in. I forced myself to wear shoes with sticks supporting them. I can't walk in heels, but if I don't I am ridiculed and stand a head shorter than the rest of the room.

And now I'm here, and do you think anyone gives a ****** **** how long it took me to get ready? Do you think anyone cares that the wire of this bra is cutting into my flesh? No. I know why, too, because I am not wearing anything like everyone else. I am the only one who's dress gathers at my knees, and as far as I can tell, the only one wearing a bra. I don't care if other people want to dress like that, good for them, but it'd be nice to know that people actually want to know you for other reasons than *** with a blind face to brag about later.

I am watching girls do anything, no matter how uncomfortable they feel, to please their companions. If this is what I have to look forward to as being a young adult, I don't like it. At all.