drainage

motel '20

he's got a sports car that revs with its teeth bared, open laugh, unhinged just like me. he always talks with a smirk, the crook of his mouth caught on my virginity. i like this about him. how he grounds me , buries me, into myself.
conversations dancing through the prescription anxiety of his lips on my neck that is now a crime scene.
i put my hands against his chest, and i think maybe he could love me.

"i have wanted to fuck you since we met." enter the wolffish grin. enter the long fingers scraping against my thigh. enter the heartbeat in my cheeks of love, lust, gone. i take that compliment with all of me. remember when we met? nearly sixteen, my shoelaces tied in knots like my stomach that refused to uncurl. how my hands shaked, teenage dead girl- "shy"not scared.
he was my sisters friend, ten years older than me with everything that i wanted but wasn't in reach. he knew how to loosen knots with his teeth.

now freshly seventeen and we fuck on pearly cocaine bedsheets. he holds me in any and every position like i am the girl of a victorian painting. my breath is now a ghost. when i moan like the girls in the movies, he tells me to shut up. men like him only fuck girls who play dead. and this isn't far from what i've always been. i practice holding my breath. is it rape if i said yes? if i let him pin me in motel '20?

i told him my parents were annoying. scolded how they locked the doors, signaled the alarms- how my body climbed out the window like i was finally escaping; how the walk to the stop sign down the street was when i finally felt free (where he picked me up in sleek sports car misery) he laughs, "baby, you're only seventeen."
only seventeen, and yet your hands dug inside me as if they're searching for the older girl i pretended to be.