Red rubber cheeks rub against a
tongue too dull and wet to pop anything.
With water in the throat, she chokes and breaks against a hand, all the nails
bitten down, nobody cries. Those of us who saw it don’t think it
was out of bounds. We all stared and pat ourselves
dry. The hand is just that, calloused and cracking.
Didn’t know who or what to feel bad for.
We lit our cigarettes and
stuck one out to be courteous
and I could feel the young woman’s
face from the floor, telling us to fuck
ourselves for watching. I tell her it isn’t like that
at all.
I tell her my routine. I tell her how my
eyes cross when I’m tired. How I shiver on
the toilet, tell her how I had burst. I tell her how
my arm came off and hit someone in the shin, and
how my chin hit my laptop and chipped the first
row of keys on impact, how my chest anchored
me and how I took the cigarette, with a similar
distaste.
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