when she walks in,
home is no longer
a home, nothing but
nicotine-stained walls,
a collision of
sc a t t ere d
s (ca n 't)
m e m or ie s
she's––
( your go-to fuckbuddy.)
––stretched by your side,
laid out bare against
mussed up sheets and
tracing the lines of your ribs
with the pads of her fingers:
your cruel mistress,
and you're
a fucking mess
of blue lips and
trembling hands
even cigarettes and candy
can't seem to quell