I forget to eat and go running anyways,
sweat dripping as I sprint, sneakers pounding into the
YMCA treadmill while Hitler-moustache-man glances over
with badly disguised attraction and I turn my music up
louder. My lungs don't catch as much air as they used to
but I make two miles before stepping off to put on a jacket,
and in the bathroom, I shiver as my stomach convulses
and my addiction to caffeine goes flooding into the
disgustingly pure-white toilet. I rinse out my mouth with
sink water and walk to the car, turning up the radio and propping one
foot up on the dashboard. I down a Red Bull with
nonchalance and wish I had brought my cigarettes.
Addiction's a fucking whore, but my legs look better now.
It's getting easier to fit into my jeans, size zero long,
and I pull a tank top on so that the lace of my bra shows right through.
I wear grungy white flip-flops because March is close enough to June
and my hair blows cliché in the still winter wind. I make a stop at
Dunkin Donuts to get more coffee (medium French vanilla with
cream and extra sugar) and he smiles and gives me a stupid kiss
before I walk out on him for the last time. I light a cigarette outside
and wait for the ash to fall off by itself, 6:43 and it's time to get the sun
falling out of the sky.
The car slides smooth over the ice in her driveway and I park
with practiced precision, zipping up my sweatshirt so her mother
will love my modesty. You and your boy show up in another two
long hours, smelling of stale cigarettes and laughing at something
I don't think I understand. Her mother smiles with suspicion and
lets us to the basement alone, shutting the door with pacifist anger.
I kiss you easily and your gum tastes like the creamy mint in
my chapstick, you take off your glasses and my fingers run through
your spiked hair while you open your eyes and I stare back.
Your fingers are cold over my jeans, but I know it's a compliment.