pretty girls (bad girlfriends)

in my head exist scenarios in which it’s alright to want you this much. i card my fingers through your hair and nothing ever came between us—not him, not her, not that way you get when nothing feels quite right—and my imagination falls apart because it’s always felt better to hear “i hate you” from perfect strawberry lips than the saccharine everythings you’d feed me. i picture you in every wrong (right) way; with your hands on my neck, your pulse beneath my ear, face down, beautiful and angry and dead on the floor. i picture you and i steal memories of the way it (never) used to be, like it’s allowed, like i deserve to have you this way. i hope this hurts.