To N

His budding spurts of thick hair and erections. Sex feels like quicksand. 

She stares into an abyss of

pixelated screen at three am. He wakes up. She panics. The musk of his testosterone chokes

 her, and in her drunken stupor of asphyxiation: the weight of his cologne lifts. She

cries. Chest to chest. Breast on breast. Pink Triangle by Weezer. Soft

chapstick-stained lips, the curvature of female bodies, her

 cheap dollar-store deodorant. Boy. Man. She dreams in

black and white, the grayscale of sexuality

towering over her. He asks her

to stay. She paints her nails

pastel pink.

Lesbian.