I Want it to Hurt

You mimic my voice with a degrading falsetto and imitate the faces I make when we kiss, lolling your tongue to the side like a dead animal. Rage flares at the base of my brain stem as my jaw clenches and my cheeks seep with blush. My nails dig into my palm and long to dig into your flesh to cease your cocky smile. Instead I laugh the tinkling, quiet type of laugh that I imagine a boy would like to hear.

Last night I had a dream that we went to couple’s counseling. The therapist asked how long we’ve been dating. “A month,” I said, and he kicked us out.

You ask me how it is that I can be so beautiful, question how it is that you are my first- that no one snatched me up long before you had a chance to. Because no one else was arrogant enough to push me past my comfort zone, I think, and smile devilishly, pretending to enjoy your compliment.

Today I thought I’d write about you, but instead I sat in the 70’s printed swivel chair and picked at my split ends- anything to avoid the sentimental idea of putting your name down in graphite.

Sometimes when I rest my head on your chest, I look up at you and feel the urge to smack you on your so-sure face. I’ve never punched anyone before, but you make me want to try new things.

I go to your house with a sunburn after spending the weekend with my family.
“Just think of the awesome tan you’ll have,” is your only comment before sliding your hand up my leg to squeeze my sun-blistered thigh.

We’re lying on my bed just staring at the ceiling fan, because my dad is still up and you’re afraid of him.
“You’re too cool for me,” you say. I furrow my brow as I think of all the dorky things I do. No. You meant to say that I’m too nice for you.
I wish I would have listened.