Most nights I wish someone else would bend you backwards.
Most nights I remember you’re scared of sleeping alone, fearing the hands of those
fill-in-the-blank boys shifting the liquid assets of their personalities.
Most nights I watch as you dance with the devil and drag him to the bathroom,
make him shower before taking him to bed.
I wanted to know why you had said, that one time, you wished you were
me fucking you, why you both killed the insecurities stuck to the fridge of my subconscious
and ate the dreams you found inside it.
Bless me, I want tonight to be like most nights, but the truth is I don’t care anymore
if you’ve discovered a new antonym for love.
I have my own gravitational pull,
and the lamp on your nightstand keeps moving further and further away.
By: Maru Pabon, Contributor