I’d kiss you until you forgot what state either of us were from,* the boy mumbles under his breath. I tell him to shut up and down the poison. He picks up the glass and drinks, willingly, clutching the cup like a tether in a swirling sea, the unflinching beacons of his eyes relentlessly searching for something more, a girl made of mirrors, someone who lives behind the iron gates.

Patience. Sit and listen. Close your eyes when you are on the phone and picture him lying next to you, a body, warm breath on your cheek. Picture him turning you over and pressing his lips into that place on your neck that drives you wild. Then see yourself throwing poems at your mirror and watching the glass fall over him like rain. You always manage to **** it up, anyway. Maybe you should go without mirrors for a time, but how?

The boy is banging on the iron gates and you’re screaming up at the sky but it’s not good enough. All the banging in the world won’t encourage his entrance. All it will do is cause you to curl up in the furthest corner of your soul and wait for the noise to stop, because it always does.

He sits you down and whispers corny poems into your ear and you don’t know what to believe or why you feel the way you do. You only know the feeling of the rubber band inside you, and you know he’s going to push you too far and you’ll either break in half or retreat into yourself, because at one time, somebody made you elastic and that is the only thing you know.