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xy³
once, a boy told me something. eventually he broke my heart and had me crying for a month, but i dont care. i cried for days at my dreadful summerjob i started on my eighteenth birthday, the last day before he left, came back for a weekend but that is when he left, stopped living supposedly on a mattress on my floor but really on my bed with his ear on my tummy making funny noises laughing at baywatch, hungry for blood in the taxidriver. jodie foster, such a fucking teenage whore. i have a picture of her on my wall.
we sat in a park, in the city. wednesday morning, early morning, the shops barely open. mist in our hair, me shivering, wearing his lace shirt. a lot of good did that do. he always hated suede but that shirt, it was so brett anderson circa whenever the first album was released that it makes me laugh now that i think about it. we had bought cigarettes and vanilla pudding from the shop on the corner five minutes after it opened
but im so cynical about boys. i'm so disenchanted by the words that come out their mouths, when they tell you youre beautiful and throw compliments that sometimes make no sense. i never expect them to actually mean it. i expect them to lie. just to get into my pants. because ive seen my tv, ive heard my stories.
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