Girl in Pieces

Of course it starts again. It stopped for a little bit and I thought, now that we are together, I won’t have to do this anymore, because he wouldn’t ask me now, would he? All of it is wrong. I see it. I understand it. I’ve seen movies. I know boys should come to your house in a car, and take you to dinner, and buy you flowers, or some shit like that, and not make you wait, wait, wait, in your dingy apartment until your body can’t stand it anymore, and you get on your bicycle and ride to his house, instead, so grateful that he even opens the door and smiles. “I lost track of time.” “Hey, you, I was just thinking about you.” But he does ask. “Would you, could you, think you could go on a little run for candy for me? Then we can watch TV, or you know.” He calls me “my nighttime visitor.” He’s like the desert itself: it’s so beautiful, it’s so warm, but there are sharp edges everywhere that you have to watch out for. You just have to know where they are. SO: I know this is all wrong. But maybe, me being me, this is as good as it’s going to get. It’s too late, anyway, you see: I’ve already fallen in.