love, he says, is not real.
he’s said it again: with his nails digging in my collarbone,
those flighty night-howls always drowning
but it’s still shaky: i think he’s like a faulty
clockwork that won’t admit it’s
malformed / breath trembling when he
says it yet his greedy fingers want more to
grasp upon. define pressure point for me,
& I’ll tell you what’s his.
love is not real, he says when all lights are
out, hips moving carelessly.
( when i say I love you, he never laughs,
his lips tremble & he whispers, don’t do
this to me )
— Demi Ev./ pressure point