I called you my boyfriend yesterday.

The word rolled clumsily off my tongue. It tasted dirty, like the bitterness no amount of Crest could pull from my gums the day we ate from the earth and spent the longest hours watching the floor lines shift into animals. It hung awkwardly in the air, and I wanted to snatch it back, roll it sloppily up, and tuck it away in the dark folds of my dress pocket.

You can’t be my boyfriend. Not yet. Maybe not ever.


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