the truth is i knew i was becoming obsessive, crazy even, beating it into you everynight. something about you made my stomach turn, made my hands wring themselves dry of soap water and praise you for not being next to me but close enough to still want you at a distance. i dont know what i liked about you, your laugh or the way no serious complications ever followed your inhibitions. i know you promised me things you wouldnt keep and my doorstep was only so far. i only wished youd jump in your car and drive to get to me past highways and gas stations, clever enough to know id be waiting. how you would have gotten to me never even crossed my mind, i kept imagining drawing you up on a rope of bedsheets and pillowcases and clean panties. you never romanticised about anything, i know boys like you forget girls like me in a heartbeat, dont even remember our names. i just wanted to pinch the fat out of our conversations, cook myself into something tasty or desirable--other nights i still hid in my bathroom, my face pressed to the floor trying to find the pulse of something more than our stupid beings, wondering if one day you would come back to me like a bird smacking into a glass door, and id open it to look at you, examine the damage, and think what a stupid bird you were for not seeing the glare of the sunroom.