Smoking out of your roommates' hookah,
we blow smoke rings into the center of the room as our heads press into the backs of couches.

Drinking out of plastic cups and writing "**** LYFE" on our knuckles
we dabble in the witchcraft of half-truths.
I feel beautiful in this moment.

Wearing combat boots, torn tights and a cardigan
I stomp through your living room not giving two *****.
I flirt with the table,
the chairs
and even your brother.

Tonight is about me.

I had woken up this morning with a ****** piercing and curls stuck to my neck,
my fists balled up in soft blankets.

Doubting everything,
I tried running through my thoughts with my eyes shut,
only picking up fragments of sentences and bad music.

A full moon
and a monroe
the only tangible proof that last night even happened.

I have grown accustomed to holding my own hand in public,
taking up the place that I had reserved for you.

With our lunch date canceled, I'm free to go dancing with poets and *** heads.
Twist my fingers into the hem of the skirts that tickle my knee caps,
I laugh as loud as my lungs will allow.

If you looked at the back of my throat you might see the words I am saving for a much anticipated stranger.
A beautiful doe-eyed stranger who drinks me in like his favorite liquor.

*"You can never have too much of a good thing, babe."