She likes writers. Fucks them exclusively, but refuses to read their stories. Attaches laminated pictures of penises short-to-long to her keychain and thumbs through them like a flip book at parties. Drinks beer through a straw from a Dunkin Donuts mug while she drives. Begs me to shorten her T-shirts with my woefully dull switchblade, then barks unconventional curses when she puts them on: Too short, grassy knoll fucker! Breaks into my bedroom and steals cigarettes while I sleep. When I catch her, I raise a hand as if to slap her face, but I never do. Never could. She kicks me, barefoot, somehow hurts my leg more than she hurts her toes. Calls me brother like she’s spitting on the floor. Takes her pilfered cigarettes and leaves, stomping heels like a tantrum-gripped two-year-old. She won’t allow me to call her sister again until it’s time for me to collect her half of the rent. Then she’ll want me to hum it, sing it, burn it into my chest with a Zippo-flamed coat hanger and trade shirts for skins so her overnight friends can touch and experience our bond. But she won’t pay her share of the rent. Never does.
I am a Knife