15 he said

 he said

 

Live, you make me want to be a better person,

to admit when I’ve done something wrong,

to learn to not be selfish,

to be someone different.

 

But he kissed girls and boys like he smoked pot,

enjoying his wants in his pajamas.

 

He licked their lips like he drank whiskey,

secretive and insatiable.

He’d bat his lashes and smiled so gently

 

to squeeze my heart’s easy measure.

He shook his head, he spoke so clear,

but my blood twisted.

 

“It was just a kiss,” I whispered, “right?

You do love me?”

 

I want to be with you.

I shouldn’t have done it but I was

being so selfish and careless.

You make me want to live.

 

But he kissed boys like he smoked pot,

for himself.

He licked their lips like he drank whiskey,

for himself.

He’d bat his lashes and smiled so gently

 

to break me.

He held my hands to reassure me,

tender and unreal.

 

“I don’t want to go home,” I wept,

“But I have nowhere else to go…”