I paste my smile into an email, and my smile is a laser. For a lonely moment tonight, I hope it will kill her.
Endless genders will fall over her heart and hair and hands.
I paste my smile. It is my paper-cut, this mouth of mine, and a splash of rubbing alcohol. My smile will—eventually—have her falling about it, swallowing my semen. My smile will micrify her.
In eleven years, I will note this reversal of roles, but she will not. While I’m fucking her on the sofa, or in between candy machines, I’ll love her, yes, especially when I remember this ripping scene:
the lengthy, heart-wrenching process of attaining her. I peed on her toothbrush and hid her tampons
because she was wrong for so long—having nearly missed me.
In eleven years, she will never unwind again. She will look twice in the mirror; she will forget what bills she’s paid, or if she slapped a condom on me.
Liefie, I will say, relax. I’m here now.