Last year at the picnic I got a little
drunk and we left to go have sex in my room.
You said that you loved that “you are my only.”
There was a long pause.
We stopped kissing, suddenly everything
changed and, “I fucked this other girl this spring, we
weren’t dating, we weren’t talking.” Again
there was a long pause.
When you forgave me about two days later
we finished having sex and I told you I was
afraid I had gonorrhea that “it hurts to pee.”
You weren’t even
mad. You said “you’re probably fine,” but if I’m
scared I should get tested and you found the one
Planned Parenthood opened on Sundays and drove
me there and waited.
Afterwards you bought root beer floats, mine in a large
glass souvenir mug that I took home, and we
talked like nothing had really changed, like root beer
gave back innocence.
I was fine and we were fine for a week, a
month, another year off and on, but slowly,
again, I would lose sight of how good you treat
me. And I’d leave you.
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