she has thumb prints from where
the I-told-you-so took hold
of the roadmaps on her hips

between the sweat and the bass
he could barely tell that her pulse
was exploding beneath her skin
and all of the closed mouth kissing
made her feel slightly less young
                         as if she could outgrow this
the salt-soaked-pillow-case-mornings
the way cheap eyeliner smudges
into a perfect 2am shadow that lasts til noon
                                as if she could outgrow
mac-n-cheese and pancakes absorbing
the residual wine that her body has learned
to hold when she can't feel her lips anymore

because not even tiger striped hips
can stifle the hope that bubbles
up to her shoulders when the guy
with strong hands and a fickle heart
and an I-told-you-so-smile
sends lightening up her spine.