on second chances and brimming with the knowledge
that I’d survived my time on the streets. He’d work
himself into an hysteria, fevered and sweating,
capturing my angles—the pockets of light and dark he
swore represented everything I hid inside. The things
I didn’t want anybody to find. When he was done, he’d
light a cigarillo, crack the window overlooking the
back alley, and smash a kiss against my forehead.
He leans into my space on the bed, wavering and
waiting.
“Do you want to sketch me?” I ask, knowing
the charcoals will leave my features smudged and
unfinished.
He throws back the tequila again: one, two, and grins,
his glassy eyes greedy now. “I want to carve you.”
I press my lips against his cheek, tighten my muscles
into the precipice of a peck, but don’t cross over.
Offering him another shot, I tilt the bottle up and
watch him swallow: one.
“Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re not beautiful,”
he slurs, before slumping onto his nest of throw
pillows.
My silk dressing gown, the one adorned with handpainted tiger lilies and twittering robins, hangs over
the chair by the vanity. I throw it over my shoulders
and sweep down the hallway towards the studio. Sweat
lines my brow as I chisel at the sculptures’ mouths,
all of them created with a symmetrical smile. He
doesn’t see that I’ve changed, that I don’t deserve him
anymore.
When he wakes he’ll find the statues and busts and
likenesses mute, their mouths removed and shattered
on the concrete floor. And he’ll find me naked and
spent, draped over the camel back couch, waiting for
him to mould me.