The sad side of town

177.

'He never wrote me poems. We would fuck in his car or on his bed where other girls had been or in the shower or while I was crying. We saw each other naked so often I have the image painted on the back of my eyelids. He ripped my underwear off, I was always vulnerable. I woke him up with kisses, he woke me up with hickeys. For a long time, I thought they were the same thing.

I asked him once while we got high why it was that I could write novels about him until the words got tired of being anagrams of his name - but at the same time he would never reciprocate. He blew a smoke ring and broke it with his finger. "Dunno," he said. We would fuck again later.

I found him once sitting on my floor staring at a picture from when I was younger. "God," he said. "I really fucked you up." '

This isn't mine, I saw it on tumblr