I feel like I may be possessed by the ghost of Amy Winehouse. If I could only be so lucky.
Why do I still dream about his kiss? She made millions off of her lover’s betrayal. Know what I’ve made? A dent in my bed where my lifeless body lays day after day, daydreaming about how he use to kiss me. The ways his tongue would turn and his lips would press harder then soft again, press and release, suck me in, push me out. How were we always skin to skin but he kept me a million miles away? I told him today, “I hate you. I hate the day I met you.” I’ll say anything now just to get a response. For every 100 I send, he sends 1/2 a one back. I keep ripping up my dignity copy and pasting it to each text and I hit SEND. It never comes back to me. How did I let myself go this far?
Ankles weak from the whiskey, these six inch heels might be the death of me.
Everything comes out so poetic. Everything comes out so pathetic.
I’ll drive an hour and ten minutes to his house. Yes, I wore that dress he likes. Yes, I wore the lace boy shorts. Yes, I wore the perfume. I hate perfume. Makeup on beat, Eyeliner on fleek.
He plays me what he thinks is a love song, trying to entice me. I can tell it’s just a ploy to get me out of these lace panties. What he doesn’t know is this is a decision I made before I ever walked thru the door. I have no dignity anymore. He took it all. That he wasn’t him. But I will blame it on him. Take all my anger out on him. Because he doesn’t answer but him will. At least for a little while. At least until he feels he’s given me what he owes me for what I will give him tonight. The last shreds of my dignity. It will be a fun game for me to see how far I can push him. How bad I can make him feel. He broke me. But I will make him feel like it was all his fault. Someone must pay penance for these sins.
Isn’t that what we are all doing? Making the next one make up for the last one?
When does it end? How did it even begin?
I need a drink.