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It's funny how an innocent

"You're really pretty"

can turn into a simple 

"Hey ma, let's hookup."

The same way our lollipops turn into pipes,

and the dumdums we suck on now aren't as

big

as they used to be. 

They don't taste like Jolly Ranchers anymore, but

rather like sweet nothings in afternoon delight.

Like ABC

already been counted

Hubba Bubba, High Five cause he got to chew on it

Hot Tamale tan lines on a bed that 

rolled too much. 

They taste like a butterscotch screamer 

that thought she was more than a woman that day.

But I don't think they make that flavor.

I make that flavor:

a sippy cup of orange juice turned mimosa

at 7 am and a menthol

because we are artists, not the lucky strikes 

we put out

to be. 

We are the eight dollar febreeze in the trunk

that pretends to be higher than every bird

perched on the telephone wire we swing from.

We are the beatniks of 2014 and channel Kerouac when we howl

at the sun. 

We are the smells inhalded after one night,

one time,

one afternoon;

the smell of feigned indifference 

and casual perfume.

And it's funny that you can sit there

behind your beautiful emojis

and write me an essay

at 4:56 am 

about the hips that dance in your eyes

while the moon still slips 

and the stars want to cry.

While we're both yawning at the nostalgic glow 

of IPhone Love.

While private browsing is on, and

we tell each other

we are enough. 

But a dinner date would mean that you'd have to admit it all.

That you fell

into mud. 

That you lowered yourself into five foot two

cococunt flavored lips and 

carved your name inside finger tips 

that played

with your pretty

pink

skin that sunbubrns  under fluorescent lights.

That you ripped out shaggy hair that had never been cut 

and hung your pride with it 

in the grave 

for the hour

before your momma got home--

even though you were softer than the pillow cases. 

What is there to really say about

"You're really pretty?"

Did you mean it?

Did you know that I never believed it?

Did you know that I never covered up the bruises with makeup

because I didn't want to

spend the $7.75 on powder

that concelead secret pride

and did you know

that I'd had you before because

you are nothing

but the same stranger on repeat.

Did you know that I smoke newports because inhaling your cologne destroys me worse

than they ever will? 

Brown Skin Sugar was only there

for you

to taste. Silly me

to think

you would keep something burnt.