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"Is it wrong that I think about fucking
you all the time?
In my head, I have your body down
to a science.
I know how to make you beg and I know
where to put my hands.
We touch each other like piano keys
and it is beautiful, the way we sing.
Maybe there are some things you
just shouldn’t say out loud.
Maybe that way you never have to
apologize for them.
It’s Wednesday and I am out of my mind.
I am counting the tiles on the kitchen
floor just for some peace.
1, 2, 3, we don’t even make it to the bed, 4, 5, 6, I bite your neck and draw blood, 7, 8.
My mom asks me what I am thinking
about and I want to throw up.
I keep counting.
Want is an ache that won’t leave me be,
even when I sleep.
On Thanksgiving, I am going
to lick the cranberry sauce off of
my fingers and wish it was you."