Lost rosary beads.

You looked at me sometimes and asked me what I wanted.
Couldn't spit out that word. Wouldn't. I tried that night though, and positively
choked on it.
youalways say to me,
"just talk to me. Just tell me."
and once I told you some truth,
"I don't want to let you in."
you would have smirked in my dark room. I tried not to fabricate your smothered reply, in my mind-- "you just did".
It's just such a shame that you look so wonderful on my pillow. inside my grandmother's sheets. Once as she drove me home from a day in Year Nine Nonna tried to give me some kind of moralistic/religious speech. She was never one with words, and I would never cease to correct her grammar and word selection very rudely back then,
something I regret now.
shesaid to me,
"young girls these days are ashamed to be virgins"
Being that difficult just-teen I was, I would have stretched my legs as far as they could go in that tiny car and claimed that I would never have sex anyway because it was dumb, and only horrible girls at school had sex anyway, but Nonna it's not because I respect myself OR my body, I just want to hate something else. Because I'm a rebel, etc. And, also Nonna, my skirt is way too long, I want you to take it up more, nobody has a skirt this long, I swear, it's not fair.
Short skirts bought us here, my grandmother tucked us in and you
wonder why I'm speechless.

50-words of sweet rejection.

they slide into you composed longing claims fingers grope for drink find leg instead freshly-melted ice-blocks lend tepid
patches to burning whiskey don’t scowl as it goes down your denim-clad knees
separate knock little table and hers both rattle in protest a mantel-piece full somebody's love but stiletto-heel firmly hooked

I look good in stockings,

and you look good most of the time.