She Cut Me When

She cut me when I told her I couldn’t feel a thing. We connected physically the first night before we related emotionally. I only cared about euphemism. She gradually attached me to her stimulating pearly eyes and I called whenever I got the chance. And then she cut me. I called, crying in between the loud music and the tight bathroom stalls. I wept with the ringing and the silence. My friends knocked on the metal doors for me to join them but I fell asleep alone every night that month. By then, nothing was adequate.

She cut me when I told her I was still looking. The busy cafeteria irritated me but I was hungry and waiting irritated me more. I stood behind her in antsy passive aggression. She flipped her hair patiently as someone retrieved his food, biting into it as he slid through the crowd. She eyed him, nodding to herself that that was what she was going to get. She clutched her Vera Bradley backpack and leaned forward. I wasn’t having a hard time deciding; I was going to choose once the lunch lady pressured me, asking what I wanted.
“Nothing.” I told her.
I suddenly wasn’t hungry at all. She sat in the middle of the cafeteria with her chicken fingers and insipid macaroni. She laughed, excusing herself because she forgot her chocolate milk.


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