
CRYING IN THE SEX SHOP by LHC
The thing about being in a sex shop is that you’re trying to signal with your body language *I feel cool and normal about sex.*

The thing about being in a sex shop is that you’re trying to signal with your body language *I feel cool and normal about sex.*

Men. A constant desire, sometimes simmering, often burning. Never sated. And for him, I knew, it had been even longer.

I made this dangerous anomaly. I think I might have made it on purpose. I think maybe I asked for this interruption.

It was cold on the floor, I confess, but I thought it was OK. Since he left, I wake up every morning and marvel at all the me-warmed space on the mattress.

I studied the rustle of the stately rain tree when I couldn’t see the blackboard and knew Pollock’s Number 30 before I ever experienced autumn.

I don’t mind when men talk and talk; then I don’t have to do anything. They fall in love all by themselves.

Momma’s bones are broken in so many places that the images look like fins in their oceanic blue-black glow. She’s lost so much lately.

You, waking from dreams of dinosaurs, exploring deep in the ocean, worlds where Care Bears and Popples are real, listening.

You mutter “Fuck you” under your breath at his daily counting routine, for the apathy it shows for the hell the world is girdled in.

List To-Dos. Vent secret frustrations. Compose abominable poems. Dream impossible fantasies.