I was a grown woman once you found me but I acted like a child. You kissed me on that cracked and oiled concrete staircase when I led you to believe that you were the first and that was only half a lie. The upstairs neighbors heard us fight more than they heard us fuck. My dog growled at you the day you moved in. I should have listened to him then but you rubbed my shoulders when they were tight and you said you were sorry when you weren’t. I was terrible at math but worse at loving you. The walls were stark white and there were too many candles lit. Condoms were disguised as party favors in bright blue bowls. I was surrounded by fire hazards and loyal wives. I rid my body of your child before you knew it existed. It seems silly to me now that I still put you down as my emergency contact. Even the greatest sex will not cure 

loneliness

and anybody who tells you it will has never really been 

alone.