In the back of his car at midnight, he pushed me away—
told me I'm too good for his ragged lies.

To prove him wrong,
I lie in the flatbed of your truck,
our kisses, perplexed confusion of passion—
tequila on your tongue firing down my lungs—
my body smothered in heat (yet
wretchedly cold—ice floating down my veins)
the black dress my mother trudged hours searching for,
woefully at my waist (refusing to acknowledge what
she'd think)

When I'm more frightened than I ever have been—
legs twisting around yours (trying to become
reacquainted with your freckles, with your hairs—I
greet your bones with the shock of an old friend,
finding less change then you once expected).

You don't remember how much I hate liquor—
how I cried the first night I got drunk,
how you wrapped your sleeping bag around us both—
my steel breaths frosting your ears.
My whirled sobs, wishing I was a little girl.

You,
too far down to remember—
and I, floating with daisies, can't forget anything
(our lips are both swollen—you fumble, heavy-footed,
through our kisses).
My mind, wanting experience,
wanting intellect and wisdom (my heart
uncertain, but dreadfully overwhelmed.)
Bass thumping over our bodies
(I prefer swinging jazz, sway us like an ocean,
but settle for frenzied shouting to match the tempo of our shaking).

After—
our bodies heavy tired,
stagnant slumber, I can
dream how I'll look through the world with shrewd eyes
(but, when he's not there, pretend I'm lying
in that sleeping bag,
when crying with you made everything better).