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. 
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