I see you watching. I’m trying to be subtle in my performance but we both know I’m a liar.
Well, shit. Say something.
I think about the girl you fucked down south on your grandmama’s couch. She’s married now. Not to you.
She thinks about it, too.
If I die, I want to haunt the streets I roamed as a kid, as a young lady, as a woman.
I want little girls to play Bloody Mary, but with hubcaps and coffee cups.
There was a lot of nervous energy that night. It’s what happens when grown people play kiddie games.
You want me to say, don’t you? Always.
I haven’t seen you in a few years, but the digital approximation of your face is enough to conjure you in dreams and in silent moments. During rides down long stretches of road.
We hurt each other. You more than me, but hurt just the same, nonetheless.
I warned you. I told you that if you kept talking, I might get used to hearing nice words from bad boys.
My heart is more than the stone of a fruit. More than the peach pit you whiled around, more than its clacking against your teeth.
More than the swipe of spit up the back of your forearm.
If you came back, I wouldn’t even know what to do with you.
What do I feed you? Do I need to take you for walks? Are you even crate-trained?
I dunno if you’ve noticed, but the world is ending.
Should we get coffee?
Alyssa Cressoti is a writer, editor, and media maker in New York City. With a cup of coffee and an eye-roll, Alyssa channels classic Bea Arthur (if Dorothy Zbornak spent her daylight hours cooing at baby animals being cute on the Internet). She wavers between fierce sarcasm and sweet, girlish charm; her nails will be painted, but she is not to be taken lightly. Additionally, she plays caregiver to one fat rabbit. Her published work includes profiles, reportage, feature stories, Q&As, book reviews, poetry, and fiction.