like the pencil tracing circles down the margins,
I can feel myself spiraling into your arms when
I know this can only end one of two ways:
I get exactly what I want,
Or I spend the night bleeding into my pillow,
Spilling guts and months of self-pity and doubt
Into your innocent half-dreamt up hands
The plans that I build in my brain
How the night will go
How my face and your face will do something like embrace, maybe even face
The feelings I've erased from your consciousness -
Like a pencil in the margins,
I am not worth grading.
This is not worth debating
The night will end the way you planned it
The way I never want and always get
Hot, steamy, long, and wet
my face buried in your indifference.