Your hand is on my chest. "I can't feel your heartbeat." you say.

I nod, staring out the window, my mind on other things. I can feel your fingers, working their way under my bra, hot, burning my hidden skin. But it's just fat and flesh to me - even as the pulse in your tiny veins accelerates, excited. The backs of my thighs are sticking to the faded and frayed vinyl of the bus seat, because, for some reason, the heaters are on in late May.

"I love you." you say.

"Me too." I'm still not looking at you. The truth is, I can't feel my heartbeat either, and that scares me, more than you scare me.

Then your fingers are suddenly on my chin, forcing my head in your direction. "What are you thinking about?"

Without hesitation, I answer. "Children's names. I can't think of any good ones for girls."

You laugh, and it's like the Earth being born. "How about Miranda?"

I smile, and giggle, just for you. You need it, after all. "I like Adrianna better."

"You and your old fashioned names."

I tap you on the nose playfully, and lean in for a quick kiss. Your happiness intoxicates those around us. But it only fascinates me. I don't understand how you can use a word like love, much less understand it. We're so young. So stupid. And here I am, letting you worm your fingers down the waistband of my pants because I want to watch your eyes while you do it. How can you say you love someone like me, who doesn't even know what love is?

Buildings flash by, and then trees, and your breath quickens.

It's my stop, but you get off with me.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" I ask.

"Your mom won't mind?"

Has she every night for the past week? "No," I say, taking your hand as we walk up the steps to my door, "she likes you."

You stop me before we go in. "Do you like me?"

I hesitate. What am I supposed to say? No, but you need me? You deserve a week of goodness, even if it's a lie, for all that you've been through? "Of course I like you!" I grin, "I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't!"

We walk inside and my mother greets you warmly, and the dog greets you warmly, and my couch and my bed and the stars at night as we sit on the rooftop counting them.

Does it make me a bad person for wanting so hard to love you?

Even if I know it's wrong, if it accomplishes some good, doesn't that make it right?

A month later I leave you sitting on that same bus seat - the one I've let you steal pieces of me on every day - as I smile and laugh and twirl and tell you that we're done, I've gotten bored, go away. I see the pain in your eyes, and half of me hates it, and half of me enjoys it. But if I don't do it this way, you'll linger.

The next guy I meet needs someone to take control, to guide him through life. When you see us together, you don't feel a thing, can't feel a thing. I fixed that for you. I gave you a heart and then I took myself out of it.

The guy after him needs someone to hate.

And after that, this guy needs a pet to dote on.

A shoulder to cry on. A harsh mouth to motivate. An indifferent listener. A wild partier. A hyper classmate. Men, women, adults, children.

I exist for you, whoever you are.

I am transient, malleable, supple. I am an object at your disposal.

But I am the one that turns the world.