Do you want to sleep with me again

Do you want to sleep with me again?

Max murmurs this in my ear and I take it inside

just as easily as last time—and I take another shot.

By the time that dew's on the grass, we're drunk

and somehow make it inside to a bathroom

in a substance

free hall.

Stripping off my September clothes, the shower's on,

he has a tattoo tearing across his back and my skin is pure water—

he is such an angry boy. I know because of the force with which

he shoves

his hand up inside me; I'm arching, lips parted, hardly feeling;

I'm bending over, hands pressing against the door for support.

I see nothing but red tiles and my skin swimming in water.

He finishes

and I am filled with disgust as we stare at each other, stumbling to

get dressed.

Later, I will remember drowning flashes of breath

and his skin bruising against mine. He'll murmur in my ear

and even though we're in love with different people,

it'll happen like this again—

torn, twisted, tangled. Once a month, I bleed,

and he still fucks the breath out of me. My body is covered in burns,

electricity, water and courageously, I believe that he is what I want.

I give him shelter from a raging storm,

water coats the house in ice. The first time,

he left me with condoms and a flask. His tattoo strained against his skin,

birds flying from a breaking box. I do not,

just sit and watch his eyes telling me—I know I hurt, but protect yourself.

I know you drink to excess but

you look

so good

doing it.