Like a chemist, she found the formula to make my heart pump blood from my brain to her heart and back again.
When we’re close, I can feel her heartbeat; mine races with insecurity.
I’d burn anything to condemn the beating of this lie.
The lie that I’m not good enough.
I’ve torn myself to knots, she says.
But the way her makeup stains my pillowcase is the lonely position of indecision.
I’d burn myself from within to feel her breath against my skin—to feel her breath against my neck.
I’d burn her house to the ground (metaphorically) because that just who I am this week.
I’m a notch on her bedpost.
I was a notch on her bedpost.
Until I asked her to marry me.
She said, sure, why the hell not, blowing smoke in my face.
I laughed under a breath.
We tangled in her bedsheets.
We made love.
I felt her heartbeat, and she felt mine.
She took sandpaper,
Scratching the lines on her bedpost.
She said I’m the best she’d ever had.
And, she said If I ever left her, she’d burn this city.