Nice people go quiet. The group chat dries right up. Then the money leaves and we are mates again. Poverty makes all our manners seasonal.
Year: 2024
A man lists bodies and he is experienced. I do the same and I need saving. That double standard is older than my bloody rent.
I tell myself the promotion ends the tight feeling for good. It will help. It will not make me suddenly wise on a Friday night.
The performance drops in the back seat. I replay the look I should have left on. Call it a good night. Mean it halfway, barely.
Mascara at midnight, work badge in the same bag. This city watches you switch lives in one carriage and nobody comments. That is the mercy.
No speech. Just the look and an extra mug on the side. Flatmates see the mascara and the hour. Lying is pretty pointless in here.
Do not just grunt and hope for the best. Tell me it is good. Tell me where. Quiet men make me bored and over perform.
People love a girl who is easy to plan around. I have taste. I have a body. Wanting both respected is not me being difficult.
Anyone will touch me in the dark. Fewer will hold my hand by the bus stop. That gap tells me more than those late texts.
Not showy messages. The are-you-home-safe ones after. Aftercare is a character test. Most good people pass the sex easily and then fail the morning kettle.