He thinks I’m special but only because he’s bored and I’m sometimes available. We’ve come a long way but not far enough to really make the thing work the way I want it to. The way I need it to.
Love is nice but we swore off it way before we even met each other. In that dark musty hole-in-the-wall near the office. Black leather and weathered wood. Beer stains on the floor and blood red wine that tasted like alcoholic sickness, though really nothing tasted like much of anything but cigarettes because when you could chain smoke in bars there were plenty of nights where that’s all we did before having trash sex in the parking lot at 2am.
Bar stools. Ash trays. Dirty martinis and dirtier looks. Waitresses with local accents I only recognized when I came back into town for old times’ sake. That’s what they say, right? Old times. The before times. He was the after times. At first. But everything turns sour eventually and so it’s better not to get too attached.
We skim this life because we’re arrogant. We slide our fingers along the surface, too terrified of breaking skin. It’s a foolish kind of false protection. We smile wide and use our sins to cut into the places we are desperate to touch but don’t know how.
When he takes me back to his place, I put on black eyeliner and take off my clothes. This sounds more thrilling than perhaps it is in real life but, like I said, attachment will kill you and even if you think you’re spared it’s only because it’s killing you slower than most.
Hold your breath.
Hold your feelings down deep in your chest.
Hold my wrists together against the bed.
Hold on to every insane dream you ever had and never let go. One day you will breathe your last and so will I. I have a friend who likes to remind me of this. I think she thinks it’s motivational and it probably could be but I don’t want to be motivated.
I don’t want to be reminded, there’s a reason I forget. I don’t want to be preached to, lied to, talked or tempted or tricked into one more manufactured feeling ever again for the rest of my life.
If it hurts, so be it. If it’s wrong, let it go.
If it hurts and it’s wrong but you like it, to each his own. Just don’t expect me to fix you, baby. I picked you cause I don’t think you’d want that anyway. I think you like the way you fuck with passion but without reason.
I think you like the way when morning comes you find yourself alone with your dampened sheets and your crumpled up stories. What was it you said to me the night we fought so hard we swore we were over just as the dawn began to break into day?
Yeah, I remember now. You kissed my tears and looked me dead in the face. Said not to worry so much about everything. Said in the end, little girl, it’s all material.