“There’s no story here. I let you flirt with me because I’m lonely. I let the dinner party go on as long as I can and then I pull the tablecloth out from underneath us until I’m the only dish that hasn’t fallen to the floor.

I don’t think I have it in me, the fairy tale you’re talking about. The one where I call you back and sound like the princess, all hopeless and helpless in love. Most times I’m satisfied with just being wanted, because I’m still my own and you still can’t stand it and God, it tastes good, the air on the way back to my place, alone as ever.

Give me a feeling. Any feeling. I’ll chew it up and spit out something pretty, tie the tenderness with my tongue and hand the cherry stem to you, all mangled and gorgeous.

I talk so much for someone who has nothing to say.

Yeah, I’m full of it. Yeah, I’ve already thought about fucking you in every single place we’ve walked by and no, I’m not gonna do anything about it. But I will call you at three in the morning and kiss you until you’re sure something else is going to happen, then I’ll say goodnight, belly full of satisfied.

I’m actually vicious. A sliver of me is stone and that’s the only place I let you touch because it’s the only place that won’t remember you.

So, okay, maybe there’s a story here. Maybe it’s not the one I thought it was, but at least it’s something.”