I piss standing up after we have sex so I can feel less like a woman.

Or better yet, a girl. 

I hate being a “girl.” I’d rather be Daddy’s little addict, if you will. 

I’m worried about you. Having the person who introduced me to drugs lecture me about my usage is ironic. Alanis Morissette kind of ironic. I actually didn’t know who Alanis Morrisette was until two months ago. Is that why guys like you want to fuck me? Because I don’t know who Alanis Morrisette is? And you can teach me?

You make me wear someone else’s bathing suit. Well, you don’t make me wear it. But what choice do I have? You’re a man and I’m a girl and we’re in a motel and I don’t even have my drivers license. 

I’m stuck. Not in a cute, porno way where I’m about to get fucked under the kitchen sink, but I genuinely don’t know where to go from here. 

Hehe. LOL. I don’t care. I’m jumping on the bed. Come jump on the bed with me. I don’t think I’d ever date a guy like you. But I’d jump on beds with a guy like you. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m addicted to jumping on beds. It’s ruining my life. 

Well, tell me. Whose lives have I ruined? My ex sits me down in some parking lot and tells me I’m a narcissist and rip-off Jack Kerouac. I laugh because I’ve never read On The Road, I’m never going to, and if I was a rip-off anything it wouldn’t be a fucking Beat.

When the Yo La Tengo song I’ve been crying to this past week comes onto the motel TV, I know it’s time to leave. If something were to happen to me, you wouldn’t even know. 

I don’t believe you when you say you’d feel guilty. Because I don’t feel guilty. 



Phoenix Leigh (they/them) is a writer living in Ann Arbor, Michigan. You can find their work in Versification and Stone of Madness Press. You can also find them on Twitter @phoenleigh.