"Jesus," he said
and took a drag off his cigarette
his fingers fumbling at
the buttons on her blouse.
it used to be white when she
was still a virgin
(and now she wasn't,
hadn't been for awhile) and
the color was in between
this night and every other.
but her scars were her favorites -
they rolled up her arms
in long words that weren't said
(only whispered) and
told stories in lost languages
no one pretended to hear anymore.
(if she could blush then maybe her glitter-stained
cheeks would've turned pink at his mumbling
against her neck but it was only
a sound she'd learned to ignore.)