Blank Space

He kisses you
as if to swallow you whole.
His touch is too little
and too much
but you can’t help
feeling drawn to him.
The windows steam up
while he fucks you
in the backseat of his car.
He slams into you
again and again
without a word.
His silence hangs thick
between the two of you
whether he knows it
or not.
He leaves you
bleeding and blistered,
sad and wounded.
Tells you
emptiness is beautiful.
His touch lingers,
long after the last word.
The pain of him
haunts you because
he is your first.
You mourn sparks
that will never ignite
into flames.

You tell him to come over.
You’re so nervous, he says.
Holds your hands.
He showers you with compliments
and hits all the sweet spots.
His lips are so full
you’re not sure
what to do with them.
You two cuddle in your bed
while he rattles off more empty praises
and you pretend to be flattered
because another warm body
is sometimes worth the bullshit.
He gives you a good night kiss
even though you kicked him out at 3am.
He leaves you starving for more
just like he wanted all along
except you know better
than to crawl to him.
Instead you delete his number
and touch yourself
until the thought of him
turns you cold.

He has his own place and a cat
and this is enough to excite you.
You start on his couch
and end up in his bed.
His touch is too polite, too flimsy.
You kiss him again and again
until it becomes an empty gesture,
your lips and tongue
probing for sparks
that never come.
He thrusts with haphazard rhythm.
You lie there, watching him climax.
His eyes roll back into his head,
his filthy stream of consciousness
spilling out faster and faster,
undermined by a pretentious voice
that grates on your nerves.
You’re bored and tired.
He invites you to spend the night
but you have him request
an Uber home for you instead.
He leaves you sore and bleeding,
believing you like it rough
when really
you just wanted
to feel something,
anything at all.

Since you cannot be lovable,
you decide to embrace being fuckable.
You learn it is an art, not a science
and you are pretty damn good at art.
You are fascinated at how boys
have been inside your body
but not inside your heart.
They know and desire
your face, your private parts,
and very little else.
You marvel over
this strange new power
of fucking boys goodbye
and briefly wonder
if you are reclaiming
what is yours
or maybe just
out of control
but does it even matter
when the only fucks
you have to give
are from the place
in your thighs
that gives birth
to hedonism
instead of humanity

One thought on “Blank Space

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