Too Late, Mr. Rockstar

is skin. Molly, a tattoo gun in her hand, was smiling proudly beside him. He had let her tattoo a snarling wolf's head directly over the spot where my initials, 'G.J.

was a disaster. Empty beer bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and Mol

mming his guitar. He didn't

p to the spare room

as if he were askin

studs and ripped denim he' d encouraged me to buy, I found them. My old dresses. Simple, soft, floral-print dresses from my life be

ece of gauze as the laser burned his name off my hip. The pain was sharp and clean, a physical manifest

ed with a notification. A

our ann

rital bed. The camera panned over the rumpled sheets, the hea

ntire thirty-second clip with a strange, cold calm. Then

of the screen,

up, annoye

My voice was steady, devoid

r of something-surprise? confusion?-in his

brielle. Go p