I never asked you for a million dollars.
When the rent went up and the boys stopped paying
I never asked you for money, okay?
I only asked you to help me feel better
about the whole mess.
I only asked you if you could maybe join forces
to magic the stress away, help me sleep a full night
without the nightmare sweats and under-eye puff.
You guys, I’m sweating.
I’m fucking puffy.
I know I’m supposed to give you time to make shit happen,
but come on.
What’s even the point?
Sue told me there’s four of you guys.
One for each of the times I cried into my hands this week
when a co-worker turned her back.
One for each sad masturbation nap.
Are you fuckers playing UNO up there?
Is that why I’m crying into my hands and watching myself
finger an old tea set at Value Village
from outside my body, somewhere on a rack
between two Christmas sweater vests?
Would you rather I asked for a million dollars?
Would you rather I wanted more than
a decent night’s sleep and taut skin?
I’m talking to you.
He feeds me a bite,
starfished on his mattress
on the floor. Our ankles touch
like Lincoln Logs. Did I make you cum?
he asks, a glob of McChicken sauce
on his chin.
It’s just mayo, I say,
send my hand like a scope
into the sheets. It comes
with my underwear. They want you
to think it’s special but it’s not.
Molly Cross-Blanchard is a Métis writer who lives, works, and learns as a guest on unceded Musqueam territory. She is a UBC MFA student, Circulation Editor at PRISM international, and author of the chapbook I Don't Want to Tell You, published with Rahila's Ghost Press.