The last time I cut him, I clipped in the kitchen his hair down to stubble. A buzz. A crew cut because he rowed crew out East & wore the bloom of blood like an earring. Little oops & we were through. So part of me wanted to hold his hurt lobe in the curl of my tongue until the bleeding stopped, to work my lips lower before he grabbed his coat, folded a twenty into the pocket of my jeans. Take it, idiot. I’d been too loose with leaning into him & he knew the movies they based on me: boy with laced up bruises on his forearm as if he’d taken a knife to sharpen it. Boy in a pile of hair, half-curved moons. Boy with hands as wide as oars. So what if I’m weak. So what if I replay the afternoon, months ago, we swallowed in a theatre? When we saw the muzzle of a gun, & knew it’d fire before the end. We spent the movie wincing for the shot.