for girls with quiet lovers

you are his remote.

his change-the-channel device,

eating batteries to stay alive.

you call yourself his right hand,

but he mistook you for an armrest.

you put glue between his problems and solutions,

but the credit will only be yours

if it fails.

and real love is less dry

than the dictionary ruling of 'relationship'.

he may have fresh hair at 4pm,

but he won't let your lips matter 

until the curfew breaks.

he won't let your eyes in.

he won't let your stories through his skull.

and you listen while he speaks and sings and screws with words

to screw you over,

to screw you out of your porch-kiss-standards.

he's a eulogy to your heartbreak,

dragging you to your own funeral

with bedroom eyes and plans for tomorrow.

don't let him in.

don't let him out.

and despite what he whispers:

doors were made for everyone's use,

so walk out of there, darling,

before it gets too cold 

for the devil

to bear.