Palm Hand Poster

In the beginning...

I hated sleeping in his bed. It was uncomfortably warm and a solace cold at the same time. Lumpy with a squeaky mattress that drove me insane every time he jumped. I hated the way he only had one small lamp that laminated the entire room, reflecting off the ceiling, I would look up at the glowing orb as he kissed my neck and touched my breasts. I hated how pretensions it was having one light. One fucking light! One fucking light that was a lamp shaped like some trendy boho bullshit. The bookcase pissed me off the most. Stacked with books about films and hipster titles, like he was trying too hard to be alternative/deep.

I hated the way my head rested on his chest when we watched our show on Thursday nights. It never felt right the way he combed through my hair with a swift confidence. The way he maliciously placed a finger on my nose and proclaimed it belonged there. It sounded rehearsed like his words had touched many perky ears like mine. I hated the way our lips crashed after the show ended. Then he went on to say he hadn't made out with anyone since yesterday. The way he rolled over saying things he never meant. Pressing his body against mine like he had some privilege, rubbing his hands on my backside and slapping it. I hated myself for liking it. In the dark of the night he did things only a boyfriend had rights yet in the daylight he spared no passing glance. A friendly "I didn't just sleep with you" hello and goodbye. Alone in the newspaper room there were heads on shoulders and whispers but among people there was silence. Behind closed doors there were meaningful monologues but in the open there was a fringed air. I hated how much I liked when he pushed my head down, how he patted my head as I sucked his dick and how he moaned as I pushed it down deeper. In fact I hated when he simply put his hand on the top of my head like I was an animal. Resting it there like a table top. I hated how every Thursday night he'd ask if I was going to stay. I would protest proclaiming that there was a ghost of an assignment needing my attention. Then curl up at the stranger's side till morning. It was never a peaceful night and I hated that. He pushed me away (sometimes literally) and then bring me close again. Wrapping his arms around me.

The first night I stayed over I had gotten up to use the restroom. He yelled my way something about "just leaving him in the middle of the night". I chuckled lightly stating it was only a trip to the bathroom. Upon my return he had taken the blanket and cornered himself into a ball. My mind was swimming with unrested anger and grogginess. "He asked me to stay. Yes only a nap but he held me until I could hear him snoring now its 1 am and I can't walk home alone," I thought. Tears were forming but I pushed them back, all my self-respect that I had worked so hard to build disappeared in one moment. I curled up on the edge of the bed, shivering with only my panties and a long shirt. As sleep was consuming my mind, I felt it. A blanket being thrown at me, cold and hard like you would a starving dog. The stemming anger arose on my face and I began to slide off the bed. Then just like that he wrapped his body on mine and held me tighter. I felt his breath on my neck, the soft murmurs in his sleep as he buried his face into my hair. I never slept better in my whole life.

This routine happened only two more times but each time it toke a piece of who I thought I was. When you experience sleeping with someone without actual intercourse, it's like looking inside their subconscious. Especially when said person happens to talk in their sleep and punches you during the night. In the morning I would leave, slightly hating myself while walking home, bruised from the inside out. Makeup running down my cheeks, shoes in hands, and no satisfaction. Only the feeling of synthetic loneliness that only loud music could drown out.

The last morning I was ever in that damn poorly decorated room, there was a coldness in his eyes as he told me casually "Oh I forgot you were here". I guess there was hurt in my eyes because he quickly recoiled with the average "you know I'm kidding". I tried to kiss him goodbye to finally show him some affection and he moved his cheek, his eyes were glued to his phone. All he spoke to me was a hushed "see ya". As soon as those words hit the air I partially ran home. This time bra in hand, shoes on feet and high waist shorts during a cold February morning. On the journey home I cried for the first time over a boy. I cried over our first meeting. The beauty of the randomness, the way he showed me his films, the way we shared stories and laughed at silly jokes. The way I slightly shivered when he hugged me goodbye. I cried over the following meetings when I thought he was gay but deep within I hoped he wasn't. I cried over the first time he tried to kiss me. How I refused only on the premise that I had just gotten my heart broken not a week before. I had told him I was used a lot by boys and gave me an apology, which now means nothing. I cried over how I thought about our almost kiss, late at night with my favorite band bleeding through my ears. I'd smile as thoughts of him sang me to sleep.