Evidence that we've kissed.

Evidence that you've willed yourself to share with me your most sacred hang-up: your holy come.

These precious pills conceal it all.

And when Tim tells you, informs you that I'm too ugly to fuck, and Why do you sleep with ugly people?, somehow the shame keeps you silent.

Somewhere is a man who would hide these pills from me, determined to make me fat and ripe, to see me swell with his child. Somewhere is a man who would punch Tim in the face.

I don't want babies, anyway.

I want urges and chemicals.

And evidence.