you are eighteen and you're in love with a boy who hates his birthday. you don't know it yet, but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car. you think he needs you to be happy and so does he but both of you are wrong. it'll take you almost a year to stop crying. and then you don't talk for another three and when you finally do, he thinks he still knows you, but your heart is heavier than it was then. and you **** him because you're lonely but it isn't the same. neither of you can fake love. at least he still makes you laugh. you'll pretend it's enough because at least he's a body. at least you're not by yourself. at least you're alive and you're good at *******. because bodies are distractions from the things we hide inside them. you have him inside you and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad. he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night and you laugh. you know what this is and how it goes and you both love someone else. you swear you won't **** him again but you do anyway because you're still lonely and you like the way his hands fit around your neck. you **** him because it's good for your art and you get bored of your own hands on your body and you're fine with letting him feel useful. and you think about when you were sixteen and how *** was supposed to be special and it makes you cry because you're not who you wanted to be. it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger after you left the backseat of his car. the world is so big and you don't know how it ended up on your shoulders. you would have died for him. you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved. you have dreams where he dies and you can't save him. you have dreams where people die and you can't save them and you're the one who tied your hands. your mangled heart and all its bleeding. nobody asked you to die. what good is all the love in your chest if you don't leave any for yourself?