Three months is my average; rarely
do I last any longer playing the role
of lover. I’ve dared myself to resist
the urge to leave, but it goes against
my truths. When lust-minded hands
turn to watchful eyes, I try to decide
if it’s worth it to be wanted for more
than late hours. Lovers begin to see me
as someone to bring home, to occupy
their houses. I find the exits too easily.
Originally published in Issue 1 of Picaroon Poetry.