B.

She never wrote me poems. We would fuck in her car or on her bed where others girls had been or in the shower or while I was crying. We saw each other naked so often I have the image painted on the back of my eyelids. She ripped my underwear off. I was always vulnerable. I woke her up with kisses, she woke me up with hickies. For a long time, I thought they were the same thing. I asked her once while we both got high why it was that I could write novels about her until the words got tired of being anagrams of her name - but at the same time she would never reciprocate. She blew a smoke ring and broke it with her finger. “dunno,” she said. We would fuck again later. I found her once sitting on my floor staring at a picture from when I was young. “god,” she said, “I really fucked you up.”