Scream Poems

6.2

He never wrote me poems. We would fuck in his car, or in his bed where other girls had been, or in the shower, or while I was crying. We see 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 and for a long time, I thought they were the same thing.

I asked him once, while we both got high, why it was that I could write novels about him until the words got tired if being anagrams- 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 young.

"God," he said, "I really fucked you up."

______________________________
Not mine.