“He tells me to grow up as I shrivel under his fingers. He is salt and I am a slug and some other girl is licking him off of her hand before her fifth shot of tequila. He tells me he has had one foot out the door for the last month and I have been the person helping him tie his shoes to get him on his way, I have been the doormat that he’s needed to walk over one more time as he left. He tells me that there are ways to be happy and healthy, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and another clenched in his fist. But sometimes, he tells me, those two are not synonymous. Sometimes, having one means forfeiting the other. He tells me he’s always liked his scotch neat and that I have always been on the rocks, off the rails, a train tilting on the tracks, just begging for one last push. You’re too pretty to be this fucking high, he tells me, his sharp nails tracing my lip and I picture knives on a canvas. I loved you, he tells me, but you’re too fucking much.”
— JUNE 1ST (k.p.k)
