A Monologue to a Montague
You like to think that all the Montague men with their rapiers and codpieces were Scorpios. You like to think that they would fuck you in back allies and dream lullabies of you. Mad blood stirring, the hot sizzle of summer in the south. You like to think that copper is an immutable parameter; a slash of steal, a cry of havoc and calamity. You like the staunch odor of forgotten lovers, cemeteries at night in the rain. Once, when you were a teenager you dreamt of them; their faces, hot breath and sticky lips, running up the drive, their eyebrows crestfallen at the loss of you. You used to tell yourself that their sickness was catching, and you, lethargic and malnourished hoped one day to die under their ilk. You wrote the monologue, wanted to get in trouble, wanted to fuck them in the school bathroom. Using gel pens to write graphiti on your textbooks, leave scribbles of Shakespeare in the margins for the unwashed generations that follow you to puzzle over. Your blood was cold; vampiric—working shift work at fast food joints, and wanting, wanting, waiting, wanting. You walked slow in the rain, waiting for them, waiting for the catcall jump of sex-starved teenagers. You wanted to give as much as they wanted to take. You dreamt, such hot summers in the spare bedrooms of your mind. Falling asleep in grey ballgowns. Waiting to be awoken with a kiss at your temple and the drag of fingers against your throat.

Whatever you do, don't fuck with her.