I want him to, to put his hands in his hair, and grab the sides of the chair, and think about my mouth slack and my hands sticky, and not be able to stop blushing.
Roll around, be with other girls, not want to admit that sticky hands don't feel that same against his skin when they're just doused in cum, and not childish sugary soft drinks at shitty grown up parties. She shakes until her blood runs like tar, tastes like coffee without cream, her brain floating in shaken up seltzer. He's licking elevator buttons just to find the taste of the hands, always shaking, always sticky, always covered in carelessly spilled Mountain Dew and unintentional sprays of expensive perfume.
He's gonna be raw outside and in with all the morphing this full moon is bringing him. Swords tear through him when it's face fills his eyes with tears, they fall to the floor with his human teeth. He's howling for it. His skin is breaking. His teeth are growing. His heart is swelling. Every other beat sounding like "love, love, love, love." You want it so bad baby, dontcha? Show me how weak you are for me. Spell it out with your tongue.
I want him to lose it, because he's living in a snow globe full of roaches, and the air conditioner tube keeps falling from the window grate, it doesn't matter how much duct tape he uses (and that feels like a metaphor for his heart). Grind his own teeth into powder cause porn makes him feel bored and jerk himself off raw, 7 times a day to the same VHS tape memory of my lips parting when his palm brushed my elbow. I want him to wonder about me wondering about him, and scrunch his nose at how weird he's being, and space out at the grocery checkout thinking about drawing shapes on my back and waiting for me to realize he wrote "i love you", and two hours later shove French fries in his mouth and say he hopes Cupid gets shot. He's gonna make a conscious decision not tell his friends but at 4 o'clock the boy has the moon in his eyes; his breath reeking of old memories, and he's such a bad liar they find out anyway, and scruff his hair, and rough him up and call him lover boy and Romeo
I want him to look for it elsewhere, slide into her from behind and look for my shadow in her daylight. I want him to try again, and stay up all night taking bong rips, playing video games, taking horse tranquilliser to the heart, blood to the head, adrenaline to the groin. Eat himself sick, fuck himself sore, drive himself crazy, and cry after he cums, and put his head between his knees.
It's so cloudy up where he's living, at the top floor of the apartment complex. It's all just wishful speculation, he knows no one cool in this city believes in God, but you know, hypothetically speaking, theoretically if Jesus really died for us and these red Nevada highways we sin on are really just the lashes on his chest: maybe there's a carousel in Heaven. Or maybe religion was created by cave men because they were afraid of wolves and it's just that his heart oscillates and sounds like children laughing glowing yellow, playing carnival music when he gets close to me.
I have never been in love, but inside me (half grown) it punches goose down in places I used to have chromium steel. Love is so disgusting, it leaves my heart covered in monster slime, dog saliva, it leaves my notebooks filled with his name until there's no room for anything else. But I swear to God one of these days, summer will come back and
he's gonna feel it. whoever he is. he's gonna feel it, like I do.
