synanpses 1
By JL Martindale

I did it after he said,
“I guess you’re kinda cute,
but not pretty, and in no way beautiful.”
It’d be the last time I let him play The Cure
and spread the tiger blanket
in front of that giant mirror
leaning against the wall.
I offered myself, like a good girl,
then purged violent urges
against his perfectly freckled nudity,
about shattering
that fucking glass
into his face, scarring those eyes
watching himself
like strangers,
I posed for him
like the girls in the porno
playing on that tiny TV
in the thrift store on Hollywood.
On cue, I shivered and shook.
Cried out my release
before he lost his.
Smiled while he claimed
he felt everything.
he’d realize
only after I’d gone:
my purse heavy
with his beloved bootleg CD
of Nine Inch Nails’
demo tracks,
the one I gave him
when I thought
he thought
I was pretty.

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