You: We are lying together naked. We just finished making love. Making love. We didn't fuck at all. What and who is fucking? We made love. Stroking and holding and caressing. Quiet and tender. Nobody slapped each other. All bodily fluids stayed hidden. Our orgasms were so quiet they might've been imagined. You called me beautiful and it was believable.

You: I stare. You are an old man falling asleep with his mouth open. I am shaking my head and I am ugly.

You: There are things you say to me that I am shocked by; they are so hateful. "Why did you ever want to love me?" I ask. "By all of your accounts I am a horrible human being." My face burns hot on the pillow and it's hard to breathe. Punching myself is impossible now. When the tears well up I get out of bed and walk outside. I take myself into the snow and walk until I kill myself. I am paper thin and see-through. There will be no missing me. In the morning you wake, make coffee and drive to work.

You: Everything erases and I am 21 again with blue skies. I age much slower this time and there is so much fucking I am probably, no, I am a whore. I have a heart that is fragments and suicidal. I never write these same words. I never find out who I was supposed to be. I never look for you, us or them. Blue skies! It's everything I ever wanted. My smile dies with me.

You: I keep driving. I keep driving until the world blurs and the lights turn to pretty. Until I am gone, fucking gone.

Me: I stare at my feet, bare, in the sand, toes white and pearly. I can't feel them. The waves roll over and around them and my feet are calling them a bitch. I clench my toes and they hold onto the sand until the waves take the sand away. "Who's the bitch now?" I tell my feet. "Who's the bitch now?"