I tried to put a ring on the girl who runs rings round every free dick on campus:
She can bust it better than any scarlet letter, self-conscious fair weather woman of the world, but I learned, never bust the bank for a girl who busts it open before she thinks— who uses sex to numb the sadness, who changes her accent based on where her ass is, on who’s beneath her.
And when I’m pumping the speakers she’s scuffing my sneakers, but but but I still want to eat her, and that’s the worst thing,
that I don’t regret the proverbial ring on her left hand. In fact, I can still tell you how she stands with her left hip dipped and a thin-lipped smile; and that she runs three miles before dinner and never takes dessert; and that she feels hurt when it rains because she feels like God betrayed the sun. I can tell you she’s not the only one
who numbs with drugs, who pays with sex and not love and gives no receipt. She never asked me
to pry, but I had to be that guy and save her so I could say that I did it, that I caught a bad bitch so I could always hit it, that I paid for the pussy, crossed it off my wishlist— but when she didn’t need me or my “nobility” I branded homegirl a homegrown ho and blacklisted the black bitch.
When really, I’m just hurting. Because under all my stupid flirting I care deeper than I care to share. I still prefer her eyes over her thighs, I’d rather ask about her class than her ass, and I’d rather help her rest than fondle her chest,
but I guess I went left when I should have chosen right by her. Done right by her, moved right by her. I was supposed to goodnight and goodbye her but I couldn’t just try her. I had to try and buy her.
And when she declined the ring, I cried, Don’t wife the ho. Don’t wife the ho. But at the end of the day, she’s still the only one I really want to know.