he never wrote me poems. we would fuck in his car or on his bed where others 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 hickies. 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 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 young. “god,” he said, “i really fucked you up.”