Blue eyes. Brown hair.
He is 5’-9”, weighs approximately 180 after a rainstorm.
Has a square jaw, no facial hair.
Two piercings, one tattoo of a woman named Laura
beneath a strong left forearm’s skin.
Answers to the name “Mav” and drops off my mail
every day between 3pm and 4pm.
Is never late.
Is titled friend. Is called ex-lover
is gym rat
is colleague in the next cubicle,
is manager who stays late
when there is a deadline and slit skirt on the floor below.
White collar, brown patent leather shoes
with matching belt,
black-rimmed glasses hiding hazel eyes,
scar on the left cheek that looks
like Rhode Island.
Is from Maine
and loves the cold
Is broken man,
walks with a hyperextended stride.
Shorn hair in the back, wayward curl in the front,
Is a smoker, punk-rocker
with sweet tobacco breath, pearl teeth
and clam-shell hands.
Will use those hands to crack me open
and suckle the meat
until I am part of his smoke stain.
The nearest dumpster is eight feet away.
Gets picked up on Thursdays
and the garbage men wear blue uniforms.
They have black hair and
never look inside the bags
They are never sloppy;
he made it a point to tell me this.
He is the handy-man with good reviews,
the professor who just made tenure.
Dark hair, ocean blue eyes.
Is titled friend,
is titled boyfriend
(“SO YOU OWE HIM THIS!!”he says).
Is bartender, is neighbor who needs a cup of sugar
after the street light above my house burns out.
Has a well-kept yard
and inguinal lines
which he will sharpen on my tongue,
skims them with his thumbs
while watching my mouth
after the scorching summer
Has a heart-shaped mouth
with teeth that were meant to pierce bone.
He is covered in tribal bands.
Weighs 240 without clothing.
Is married with two kids and
has milk-wash flesh where the ring used to be,
talks about a nasty divorce,
touches women outside my window,
asks me how I slept the next morning
when I bring in my garbage cans.
Is perfect record lawyer,
is titled friend,
IS TITLED FRIEND
so you never saw it coming
I fucking knew it.
Calls me ‘darling’ like he means it.
These are things I must remember.
This is how I stay alive.
Jessica Sabo is an LGBTQ+ writer born in Southern California and currently lives in Orlando with her wife and two rescue pups. Jessica’s work centers on topics of gender identity, mental health, survival, and trauma. Her work can be found in Anti-Heroin Chic, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and ChannelMarker Magazine. Her first collection of dark poetry is forthcoming.