Arsehole.

That boy you’re with
He is an arsehole.

Let’s be honest.

You screamed,
And he called you a cunt.
He threw a bottle of wine at you.

Or maybe that was me.

I no longer remember.

Once upon a time we swore that no amount
Of alcohol would make us forget.

That place in the park,
Where I went down on you.
In the rain.

It seemed romantic at the time.
But that place is no longer there.

It vanished the moment you cried rape.

So, I called you a cunt, and wasted a good bottle of wine.
But maybe that’s not the point.

We all have regrets,

I just wish that mine weren’t aimed so badly.

Nebraska.

Yeah I drink Gin too,
so what?
Sure, my favourite Springsteen
album is 'Nebraska'.
It means nothing.

At one point we even smoked the
Same brand of cigarettes,

Not anymore.
I can move on,
Can you?

And maybe I stole the underwear you were
wearing the night you lost your virginity.

I was there,
It doesn't mean I own you.

The black headband around my wrist,
reminds me of hospitals, oceans and parks.
But not you.

It was the night I scrawled
"Will you marry me?"
In chalk on the balcony wall.

You just smiled, drunk.
And looked away.

And I knew that it was over.

So I keep drinking Gin.
And I listen to that one Springsteen album.

But in the end,
it still means nothing.

Try.

“I want you to fuck me like a boy…”
She reaches into her backpack,
Removes a brown paper bag
And tosses it onto the bed next to me.

I am too stoned to notice/care.

“Huh?” I look up, my eyes glazed.
She smiles, weakly and removes her skirt.

Her skin is smooth, like a child.
Maybe I am staring.

My cock remains unmoved.

I grab the bag and look inside,
It contains a book and a clear tube of lubricant.

“So, you’re serious?” I ask.
Mostly out of boredom.

I take out the book.
The pages are yellowed with nicotine stains.

I open it up, read out a random sentence.

“So, what’s your opinion of Husker Du?”

She doesn’t understand.
I couldn’t care less.
She takes off her shirt.
I light a cigarette.

Her small breasts make me feel like a paedophile.

Tangled hair covers her face.

She crawls onto the bed, her perfect arse facing me.
I unzip my pants, still there is no movement.

She licks two fingers, slides them slowly inside herself.

She moans.

I throw the half smoked cigarette onto the floor
and get up and leave the room.

In the bedroom, I can hear her softly moaning.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of wine.

I sit down on the cold tile floor,
Stare at the empty fridge.
And I start to cry.

Faggot.

I remember looking up from the book
and wondering where he had been.
His eyes watered,
the colour of chrome.

"Last night I fucked with the angel..."
He whispered.

I looked at him as though I understood.

Standing there, trembling at the door
he wanted me. And somewhere deep inside me
I knew that.

"So what now?"
I asked, as if reading from a script.

He shrugged,
as if he didn't know or didn't care.

I turned away from him,
reached for a cigarette.

And when I looked back he was gone.