Body Count on My Bed Sheets
There’s a body count on my bed sheets
ghosts in the cotton
stains I can’t bleach out of my head
I don’t remember birthdays
favorite songs
I just remember
who was loud
and how they bled
If lust is a bullet
I am the empty shell
rattling on the floor
after the shot
I stopped learning names
a long time ago
started calling everybody
“babe” or “you”
just to keep the stories straight
They come through the door
in lipstick and liquor
eyes bright
thinking they are something new
some twist of fate
I line them up in my head
like receipts
like trophies I never dust
like blurred snapshots
of thighs and teeth
They leave in yesterday’s makeup
with that hollow sigh
thinking they got close
they never understand the grief
I fucked my way through friend groups
through bands
through offices
through people who swore
they hated folks like me
Give me one night and a locked room
and I will show you how fast
I can turn “I would never”
into “don’t stop”
on your knee
They call it charm
call it confidence
call it some compulsion
that drags bodies into my orbit
every weekend on cue
I call it a hole
I keep trying to fill
with sweat and moans and fingernails
that never fits you
I don’t need love
I need that rush
skin on skin
breath caught
heartbeat crushed
every time the high wears off
I’m already gone
in the hush
I’ve wrecked relationships
I wasn’t even in
turned stable couples
into screaming matches
over texts I sent at two a.m.
Pulled people out of marriages
quiet lives
just to prove I could make them bend
I tell myself I’m doing them a favor
freeing them from boredom
from routine
from whatever they’re too scared to break
Truth is
I want proof I can still make someone
risk everything
for one more shake
Some nights I lie there afterward
staring at the ceiling
while another body curls against me
soft and trying to catch breath
They whisper plans
talk about “next time”
ask what I’m looking for
while I’m mentally planning the text
that will ghost them to death
I’m not proud of this
I’m not some damned hero in my own mind
I know I’m a fucking mess
But the second they walk out
I feel that itch come back
already hunting
the next address
When it finally catches up
and someone snaps
or some disease calls my bluff
in a clinic’s fluorescent glare
They’ll say I did this to myself
they’ll be right
and I’ll still want someone there