She...

She undresses in the dark, one hour apart each time. Waiting for him to make the mistake of opening that door, and seeing her flesh exposed, body earthly, ripe. She promises me, she’ll be good without him. “Oh yeah, he’s yours. I don’t care.” But as he goes to touch her, she shudders unbearably, unbearably quietly. She drips under the curtain, spreads herself waiting. 

She smooths her hair across her face to show that she doesn’t care, that isn’t listening. But light still passes through, and behind her face, a glow. Seraphim angels sheathe her from her, but she glances through the spindles of brown golden-brown locks. 

She shows her tough skin, rubbing it and spitting on it, to show how it has a good metallic shine. She lives outside of him. Just outside.

She wishes she were his, but only silently. She vanishes at break of day. She wants so badly to let him know how much, how strongly, how masochistically, she feels; but suppresses it because she can be cool, too. 

Why, being an unearthly being, does she tether herself to a man? She smokes to forget it; her casual loneliness. “It’s super cash.” She licks her teeth with a grin, but silently holds back vomit. 

She is more and more like me, perhaps.