we played like children
on borrowed time—
fingers flying across foosball handles,
ping-pong bouncing between
your laughter and mine.
after supper,
we’d sneak into the library,
to the back, past the board games,
where a dinosaur waited
to beat me, again.
the librarian smiled.
we smiled back—
but we were never that innocent.
between the shelves,
you’d look at me
like hunger dressed in human skin.
your hand found mine,
and the air cracked.
i thought of kissing you,
of not stopping.
but my ribs still ached
with someone else’s name.
and so—
i stayed still.
i stayed safe.
later, by the bricks,
you found the space between my thighs,
and i followed you
through a rusted fence
into the school yard
where we looked up
at the stars,
and said nothing.
you leaned in.
i leaned back.
because no matter
how loudly
my pulse begged
for your lips,
my heart was still
a house in ruins.
this one was born behind the dusty bookshelves of a library.
the words came later.
July 26, 2025
