death by paper cut

the killing thing

its instinct or fright
drifting through the wayward pass
with a boy's hand escaping up my thigh
the city-lights of atlanta illuminating his presence
i do not know his name, but i know he's a boy.
i have an understanding of his leg across mine, holding the tequila bottle to the edge of the passenger seat. i know he wants me and that's all that matters.

   i am a looking glass and he's staring right through
he creeps up my knee, they're blushing as if i'm back in freshman year being teased. "have you ever loved anyone" and no, i have not. but you always tell boys what they want to hear. so, i brush the pink off my knees and look him in the eyes.
"maybe, once or twice." the lie slips out and i feel as if i've done something terrible. like stolen from ma's liquor cabinet, or broken a heart.

but i've said something right because now he's kissing me.
which means a cheap shot for me. one two three.
and there's something familiar in all this

doesn't want blood on his hands
yet can't keep them off me
and i'm tightening my grip on the door
promiscuity is running through you, they whisper
but i am not quite sure if i was seasoned in sex or sex was seasoned by me. and the teenage girls who sing, let go of me. let go of me. let go of me.
the killing thing,
i think it's inside me