I own nothing. Nothing I own. I have 15 cents and a sculpture to my name. Don't sue.

It's night again, and you're alone. You try to sleep, but the heat keeps you awake, twisting and turning. Across the room, your roommate is moaning softly in his sleep for whatever reason. You don't really want to know. You open your eyes, close them, open them and squeeze them shut again as thoughts you can't control pound your brain, like the words of Todd's poem. Only this time, it isn't the madman staring, it's the face of your closest friend...

You've always wanted him, you just never realized it until now. You imagine him beneath you, writhing and gasping for breath as you do things to him that you've only dreamt of. Your father would hate you for it, and you know it's wrong; this isn't what he struggled to get you into this hell hole for. The only good thing that's ever come out of this school was him.

You remember the time when you walked in on him when he was smoking and reading a girly magazine, and how you wished that those glazed, lust-filled eyes would be for you and not some nasty centerfold. You never really liked porn; all those naked women made you feel ill, like when you discovered that you were in love with him for the first time. You vomited into the locker-room sink for hours after this epiphany, not wanting to believe. You always knew you were never like the others.

Your door creaks open, and you hear the sound of footsteps coming towards you. One, two, one, two, like the cadence he defied that memorable day in class. You hope, and hate yourself for it. Suddenly, it's his lips on yours and it's nothing like you'd imagined; this is no dream, the lips aren't your pillow or the wall. A tongue slides across your lower lip, wet and foreign and like nothing you've ever felt before. The meek may inherit the earth, but they don't make it into Harvard, you said. Carpe diem.

You kiss back. He tastes like winter and nicotine and desperation all at once, because if you didn't respond, God only knows what would happen. He pulls back, and smooths the hair off your sweaty forehead.

You hear him mutter goodnight, and something that sounds like, 'Must've been the night air or something.'

You hope it wasn't.