I tell myself that it is worse being in his car than it is being in his bedroom. His bedroom walls are yellow like sick ****** face. His car is green as childhood woods (I remember a man in those woods, all old and covered in beard. He was cradling me like hard ******* candy).

This boy is a boy with a body like a mountain of beady snakes. This boy is a boy I am telling myself is touching me (cradling me like hard ******* candy). In his bed I am hiding in between his sheets and they are white and I am trying to turn into a saint, trying to forget that his face is somewhere between my legs, his face like a cruel song. It takes me two months to realize that he is never going to call me saintly, never going to view me  as a god. I am just shot deer, all leftover entrails, all spillage; somewhere in a suburban town, past some quick trees, on a quick paved grey road, I am being run over by a black Schwinn bicycle the way this boy runs over my body on nights when his face is feeling soft and pudgy and vulnerable and drunk, full of aging beer.