You want her to choose. She has chosen: every time. Every time, the door. Every time, the stranger’s collarbone, the gasp, the vanishing.
The moon has seen her climb out of three windows. The sea has rinsed a dozen phone numbers from her ankles. She keeps no calendar of betrayals because she has never promised you the orchard—only the fallen fruit, only the sweet rot, only the brief and blazing fact of her attention. irreconcilable slut full
She is not sorry. Not for the motel key still warm in her pocket, not for the name she forgot before the coffee cooled, not for the way her body says yes when the world says how dare you . You want her to choose