Whatever You Want

“Who are you?” he asks,

“What should I call you?” he continues

and I’m still not listening because I don’t care about what he has to say, and suddenly my red lips

are on his right earlobe as I whisper, an octave lower than usual, pronouncing each word slowly, my tongue dancing in my mouth: “You can call me whatever you want.”

My fingers, nails painted forest green and peeking from long black gloves, reach for the buttons of his shirt and I no longer give a fuck

about the rest of the world-

All I want is the weight of his body on mine, to give this whip a try,

so I can forget this day,

forget your death

and feel alive, even if for a little while.

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