sorry; but i was never a slut

there’s this boy i once knew who i hear snorts lines off his textbooks in latin american countries where the sun beats down and shines on him through the window of his oceanside apartment. now this boy was very lean and i remember him much taller than he actually was. he smoked cigarettes like a child and shrugged his shoulders while he walked. he had wonderful eyes and the longest fingers. i spent most of one summer with him. the last time i saw him it was around july and i remember thinking he had gotten more handsome and looked happy with katie, she sunburned and in braids. there’s this other boy i used to know that wanted nothing more than the ordinary. the kind of boy that likes working 9-5 and coming home to kitchens that smell like supper’s on the table. his quirks were of self-design and i admired that. i admired that someone that had a good life with normal surroundings would be capable of envisioning me with the same white-picket fence eye sockets. sure, for a while it was amazing to pretend that i could possibly be a puzzle piece, that for once i fit where i was laid, put, stood, or shoved. i fell into that whole pedestal complex and enjoyed being, i don’t know, something really irreplaceable to the boy. everything ends abrupt in my life but i really really like it that way. i haven’t spoken to him since his grandfather’s funeral in the end of may, but his eyes didn’t blame it all on me. i was drinking soy when i spoke to amanda on the phone last. i was wearing striped socks and waiting for the floor to dry. she told me the boy in barbados told the boy with bright suits that i had slept with other boys in cars and on old mattresses in cold rooms, that you asked her is it was all true. “oh.” i replied. i am a bead unstrung.