I sit on your brown and ***** couch with my legs folded underneath my ever-growing body. Your house makes me want to *****, but I’m too afraid to ***** inside of your house. You never *****: you’re too tall and lanky, your spine too well-dressed. You never bleed, either.
I always do; always when I’m with you there is blood on my big toe, blood soaking up the skin that sighs in between my large legs. Do not touch my legs, or my stomach. I used to know when to stop with you, how to stop with you.
I stopped feeling safe with you this summer. We both had chapped lips. The states we visited were as dry as your dusty and battered car. We spent this summer sleeping together atop unfamiliar grounds.
Not once did we have *** in your house, but still, now that I’m here, my stomach is in pain as though we did.
I still want to *****. My mouth still tastes like your car, like exhaust.
Somewhere in the background you are calling me beautiful, somewhere my eyes are closing, then everything is yelling the way a father does. I am trying to remember being three years old again, everything pink dresses against grey houses. How much would you take care of me if I told you I was sick? What would you do with my hair? I have dreams of you in which your body looks like that of a still born’s, your face like cancer of the bone.