on April 20th it said: tell us about the last person who hurt you

And where shall I begin?
With the cruelty of his grin or the anger in his elbows?
Or our hundred million sorrows?
The faults that weigh his shoulders down?

Or tell you where my mind is now -
the sweetness in his lying eyes,
the painful gaps between troubled sighs,
the guilty gasps between her thighs,
the dissonance of our demise.

My mind constructs our arguments,
reiterates the same laments, retaliates with force enough
to block out our destructive love.

Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?

When you are involved and he belongs to someone else,

your self becomes less of a self.

You only get fragments.

At first they're the good parts:

excitement and giddiness,

until confusion seeps in, and confessions pour out

and then you get the sad parts and the mad parts.

All the while you're constructing yourself as an image,

spending hours creating an idea

made of lipstick and moisturizer and deep-conditioned ends,

so when he shows up -- late,

if he shows up --

you can smile and sympathetically nod,
offer yourself as affirmation,

until he exhausts himself of complaints

and you reach out to touch his arm

and provide a different way for him to exhaust himself.
This is what validates you.

And he pants

and he begs

and he whines,

and he's so much like an animal

he makes all men animals.

It is guilt

and control.

You torture yourself with pictures of his "real life",

consoling yourself with whatever flaws you can find to tear it apart --

she has man lips --

as if that's some sort of a sin she should be punished for.

As if you're entitled to do the punishing.

You are appearance.
He is not interested in insightful or profound,
so you dilute yourself,
hollow yourself out,
tightly contain everything you,
because he might get annoyed.

You don't get a whole person.
You are not a whole person,
You don't deserve a whole person.

He leaves over and over and over --
because you tried to be a real person,
you demanded attention that you didn't deserve,
you used the word 'feelings' --
but he always comes back,
pleading, insisting that he needs you.
This makes you feel secure.

You know it's only you because you're there,
but you like his reason better.

He gets to disappear
and leave you to contend with
all the ugly little pieces.

Maybe I'm Just Tired

Sometimes I miss you to the bone

in a way that keeps me up at night

you used to keep me up at night,

with your pleading and your laughing and the guilt-ridden, empty promises

you forgot to take with you

when you disappeared.

i finally shut you out

but my mind let you back in

while i was sleeping.

Wish You the Worst

   Can I write a seething post about how bitter I am over the fact that I spent four fucking years in a dead end, terrible relationship with a selfish, lying asshole who came and went as he pleased with no regard to how I felt about it, then suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth to reappear blissfully ENGAGED to the least attractive girl I have ever seen in my entire life?
   I'm trying to dismiss it and concentrate on other things, but it's always in the back of my mind. I have anxiety-inducing premonitions of myself publicly drunkenly sobbing and insisting how much prettier I am than she is, and I've been hiding from alcohol to avoid them coming true.
   I need more self-control. I'm still masochistically stalking his facebook, hands shaking with anger, frustration and jealousy at their idyllic romance. (I almost said picturesque but, you guys, seriously, there is nothing picturesque about this bitch. She's a total ugg-o.)
   Sorry I'm whining. This post is a catastrophic waste of your time.

Lucky You

   Are we over? I always knew what it would take; for one of us to really fall in love with someone else, hard enough to make us a faint, barely-existent memory. That has always been the inevitable, impending nail in our relationship's proverbial coffin. I just always hoped it would be me. You'd handle this so much better; you're so much easier to distract, and I'm so much easier to get over. 
   I swear to God, I will never, ever, ever forgive you. I wish that made me miss you less.

This Scene is Dead

   "You're sad? How do you think I feel?"
   "I don't know."
   "Disappointed. I thought you might finally come through."