not yours

We’re in my hotel room, and it’s the third time he kissed me. In my memory I register the booze-blurred messy clumsiness, but at the time it was everything, magic, as stupid as that sounds. Our friends laughed when they heard. 

Walking back from your dorm to mine the next morning, now I think maybe I only wore your sweater so other people would know someone chose me. Like straight-As, like hands on me, shiny acceptance letters in my inbox—a soothing balm over the open wound called never fucking good enough 

this time I was chosen by someone

Like a little kid who just wants to be good at everything 

and no one has the heart to say no

It’s cute at six, embarrassing at sixteen— when she insists on being centre stage and grabs the microphone

I couldn’t wear my favourite shirt without picturing you taking it off me; for months I thought every red car I passed was yours. 

Sitting in the back as my parents drove us home, imagining you fucking me to every song on the radio

Taking the backseat, content to let you take lead, your terms only, too soon? Too true? 

She was always one of those people who did things, so they said, and you were just one of the people who wanted to.

(They don’t see you)

A split I scarcely knew was even there until the boundary line became a wall—

Put down the glass and pick up the bottle

And tilt the foreign substance in the sun.

You don’t applaud, you leave early, tucking your glass in some forgotten corner behind your chair since for once you want someone to curse you 

Want to leave a mark in overpriced red

Endeavoring to outlast their black ink.

Aster is a Montreal-based writer specializing in fantasy fiction and a grad student in medieval studies. @ivyliteraryjournal on instagram