Sunrise is starting to feel like a guilt trip.

Under the influence, I am easily influenced. I try to keep my pants on, but some things are easier said than done.

The piece of you that loves a part of me tries its best to hold onto the rest,
but my heart is a thousand-piece puzzle of a faraway galaxy, deep purple,
colors blending together and impossible to place.

There’s a weight in the room now, a remembrance of childhood. It sinks like a stone, or a heart, or my weight on a good day.

And then he’s somewhere inside of me, each thrust rattling my ribcage like a bottle of pills. I’m somewhere outside of myself, thinking about lust— about my slutty white sheets and all the men who like to hide in them.

I’ve always wanted to be the sort of boy who does the right thing without having to think about it first, the kind of boy who makes his bed every morning and wears his mouth like a vase for words of kindness and simplicity. My agents keep telling me I’m too bruised to play the part. They have no idea how hard it is to make my bed when I’m constantly sleeping in yours, how difficult it is to keep my body from bruising when I’m almost always on my knees, making room in my vase for you, and watching while you text all the boys who are up for the role.