he tasted like
res and sweet coffee.
i cherished the sticky tar
and noticeable sugar.

later i came back into the room
and he was just wearing jeans,
smoking a menthol.
he watched me get dressed
and commented on the clothes
he hadn’t paid attention to
when he helped me take them off.

i sat beside him and felt
that familiar itch in my wrist
and came to the nagging thought that
everything is just a distraction
from a life not worth living.

i gave him a piece of glass
i could have killed myself with.
he was happy to take it away,
didn’t get mad that the thought
of slitting my wrists in a fatal fashion
crossed my mind a time or two together.

i watched him drive off
and missed him as soon as
he left our embrace on the porch.
i’m more sure than i’ve ever been
that he won’t leave me.
that means that i
cannot down bleach
when i feel hopeless.