Fucked
I hate to say I miss you.
When I get made up and pick my lace panties,
That you never saw, I think I am getting ready to see you.
Then I remind myself I am going to meet a stranger
And I’m terrified, and I almost start to cry on the way there,
Because what if they hurt me? With you I felt safe, even
With our conversation being carried by my doldrums.
Do you remember my jokes? Do you remember my kiss?
I regret not touching you. I regret not breaking the rules.
I imagine breaking the rules and you wanting me so bad that
You leave her for me. I feel terrible for even entertaining the thought.
Your life would be so much better, and that’s the sad part (or so I imagine).
You could really be poly and build your own life and be free.
But instead you stay with her, and you know why more than I do, and it’s none of my business.
I shouldn’t even say that. I shouldn’t think so highly of myself. Like my sister would say,
“He’ll want me, not you.” I am the ugly broken one, the untouchable chained in the basement.
You kept telling me she didn’t hate me, but I could feel her laser eyes
On me whenever we were together. I could sense her scrolling through my Instagram,
Judging me, reading all the comments. I felt so guilty, just for looking at you,
Just for wanting you. I wanted, and still want you, but I blew it,
Because I had to. Because I’m a grown up and don’t take shit.
I think it was pretty obvious I wanted you more than you wanted me,
Once again, an unbalanced relationship. What else is new?
And how many dozens of songs you ruined for me.
But I miss you. And I want to talk to you so badly, but you don’t want to talk to me.
I guess if you couldn’t eventually fuck me, you didn’t want me. Keep it simple.
No drama. And once again my hands detach from my body and I type slowly,
And start to wonder if I’m even real. If there is someone out there who will want
Me sincerely and not just use me. I hurt from it all. This isn’t how I imagined it would be.
And I lost you, just like I lost my innocence when I thought the day of lovemaking and
Smoking joints on the swing outside went well, when they were actually using me and turning
Me into a fetish. Like the assault when I was twelve and the PTSD that reverberates in me still.
Or when he tried to blackmail me with the nude photos I sent him.
Or when he bit my lip and I started staring at the ceiling and had to stop it and
Drive him to the station while I cried.
Or when he didn’t show up for our date. Or all the times I’ve been ghosted.
Or all the messages I get from guys who only want to fuck me like I am inhuman,
Like I am a toy. I think over and over “I am an idiot” for thinking anyone would be
Kind. Would want me, not just sexually. Would hold a conversation with me. Would be real.
So today I go out alone, on the verge of tears, because sometimes it’s best to be alone.
To think it through. To try to accept that I will be used, that men will see me as a toy.
That when I dress up and go to a bar I will be hit on, even when I’m there for ten minutes
Waiting for my date.
That I will grip my phone tightly anytime I’m in a Lyft, that the driver will
Put on his sunglasses on a cloudy day just so he can stare at me through the rear view mirror
And watch my breasts shake on our broken down highways because I was too tired
And worn out from sex to put a bra on. That men will tell me what to do in bed
And I will obey whether I want to or not because I feel obligated. I want to be the good girl.
I want to be wanted, so tell me what you want, daddy. And how that makes me feel like a machine.
And how that makes me feel like a slut and dirty.
And how next time I sleep with a guy I’ll probably still do whatever he asks because my fear of
Rejection overrides my self love and care for myself.
And how sometimes they fuck me so hard I start bleeding.
And how disgusting that makes me feel.
And how much of a failure I am. And how I don’t read the books I buy.
And how I don’t clean the house. And how I don’t keep up with my tasks.
And how I’m going to fail at school. And how people think I have too many clothes, am too fat
Have too many tattoos, am their broken toy they can gossip about.
And how depression will always be tied to my wrists, like a tight rope burrowing into my center
Like an oil well, and I’ll never be rid of it.
And how it tells me to slit my wrists sometimes or take all the pills. And how much shame I feel
About my scars or having suicidal thoughts, or almost dying so many times.
And how hard it is to take a shower. And how hard it is to share my genuine feelings without
Feeling terrible and like a sinner, destined for an imaginary hell. And how my mom’s voice
Still floats around in my head like unset jell-o.
And how everything tries to hold me down, when all I want is love and to be wanted and to
Connect.
But instead I dissociate and float above my life imperceptibly, with no one knowing,
Afraid to come down, to be in my body.
To truly examine who I am and how fucked I am and how fucked everyone I know is too.
But I still miss you, and it makes me feel sick.
