no cliche flowers,
petals ripped off and stuffed
under our naked bodies.
no sweet nothings whispered
into the deepest crevices of my ears.
no, nothing but
ratty floral couch
under freezing toes,
and silent breathing
-we didnt want to wake up his friends parents-

it didnt hurt,
he moved my body like i was the ocean
tide
pulling in and out
it felt like a mixture of cold
disbelief and riveting
ecstasy.

he didnt even know it was my first time,
and when i told him later, poison almost
visibly dripped down his lips,
but he was quick to **** it back in and sugarcoat
it with honey flavored chapstick.

and i'm not saying i regret it
because it was nice.
but "nice" is not enough for Chandra Lunah Moore.

and afterwards, when he tried to lock me to the small
foam and spring innards
couch
with his soft legs glowing golden with the help of an
off-kilter lamp in the corner,
when my muscles strained against his,
i knew the frightening power of human
desire.
how when he didnt offer a drag from his
cigarette
at all afterwards, just ****** at it needily,
all for himself,
didnt drape his jacket around my
treacherously shivering shoulders
like he had on the walk there,
didnt carry me the rest of the way,
stomping through the snow,
lips bitter after two long drags
off a joint,
he didnt hold me like he did so many times before,
(almost like he believed he was heavier with the weight of my
saved up childhood, like some kind of bank account. life savings,
dragging on his shoulders, making them, sag. skin heavy with my touch.
and i was lighter, without it.
i could walk.
he was obviously carrying the real burden.)
i knew, when he kissed me goodbye and it tasted like
a
wasted night
spent on not getting what he
wanted

i knew he was meaningless and i would
never again settle for
                                     just
                                            nice.