a/n: all of this was written on the same page of my composition notebook. just thoughts. and they're all connected, obscurely. by a boy. and a girl. and my self-damning tendency to let my emotions get the better of me.


I descend upon you, my boy,
with a different kind of love; whence my breath
feels like the scrape of bone on your cheek


There's this boy— but there always is, isn't there? If your juice quells for males, anyway; you've probably met one: a boy. The boy. That boy. The one who is naive past his lips, who knows less with his eyes.

I always end up angry at myself when I think about it. The inevitability. The subtle suggestion. Like two not-yet-lovers lying on a porch in the golden glow of setting summer sun while one lays stretched out, on the planks, faux nonchalant, pretending not to feel the slow wandering eyes of the other as they feast upon promise. And the lynx-lying one cracks a lid and takes in the quickly averted eyes and asks with all simplicity, What are you thinking?

The one who has been caught shakes their head. Makes something up. Serves the ball back over the net.

The supine one smiles. Shakes their head. The ball hits the floor. Point one.


In psychology, we discuss pheromones. We discuss sex too, and that illicits a few giggles (felt only in the shoulders before th teacher's knowing slip of skin curves) but that doesn't teach us anything. its all anatomical. skeletons fucking. we— teenagers— know all about that. We cover hormones and there is analogous shifting in the navy plastic seats; we cover pheromones and the crystal ball of our omniscient adolescent knowledge clouds.

poison. sweat. lockerroom madness. squeals, soap, the stickyness of salt-lathered skin left to sit in a sauna.

skin brushes. blush and flutterby mouth squeaks "sorry!". met with a stony-blank look only a little less odious than the clean slate of an unchiseled gravemarker. its fine— okay.

shallow breath. lockers slam.

a body pauses close, radiating heat, gravity, cerulean uncertainty.

fingertips brush.

misfire.


I came into class reeking of boy. That was the real dooming moment, the paisley beginning of our mutual problem.