Of course I’m a liar. Of course I’ve traded boys like cars, cool-skinned while dancing in dark bars. It’s a fucked up life. Back in Chicago the train sparks overhead & I watch & smoke or lean against bathroom doors at Hollywood until I’m tethered to buckles, my haunches bucking. But I keep wanting someone to get on top of my blue jeans & glean their teeth at me, slide their hand down the slope of my collarbone, stick their fingers into my throat & pull the wolves out.