E.M. Killaley When I Was Eighteen he blocked the door and said, “I’m going to be stupid again tomorrow.” he knew his lust wouldn’t last the night. and I lay back on the bed, my body and his, linked by lack. when I left the next morning he protested saying, “I’m afraid if you’re gone I might miss you.” and I left before the rest of the house woke. I drew blood when I got home, my toothbrush a scalpel. I should have flossed; the memory of him was far more buried.