"you're so pretty"

Her hands are always cool chiseled forms of marble as she lightly grazes the back of your neck. You'll let her steal your mother's pills again, seeing as that she prefers to fuck pharmaceutically altered; and it is also the only way to get her
on the couch
in the basement
of your parents' house
while they summer in Madrid.

She barely smiles. And when she's blissing out she pulls her lips tight over her teeth.
Showing nothing. Saying even less.
Now you can touch her.
You can peel back the layers. You can look.
Hers is a language of acquiescence.
Her only response will forever be short, shallow breaths. Closed eyes. Furrowed brow.

And look at you.
Having just graduated from wherethefuckever
in that Polo shirt/Dockers uniform of the bourgeoisie.
You've already found
that disenchanted artist/writer
fuckupdropout beauty queen
who somehow like cinema makes everything more real.
Even her disinterest seems tangible.

Just so you know:
You won't save her. Not even for a minute.
And if you ever do.
You will hate her for it.
More than you hate yourself.