Wicked. Tricksy. False.

I read over some old stuff from our time in the proverbial sun. I can finally read through the lines. I thought I saw through you before, but that’s nothing compared to what I see now.

It was only ever a game to you. I was only ever a game, and deep down I always knew it but I didn’t want to believe it, because, well, what did that say about me? Recently someone asked me if I fall for everyone who has a kind word for me, and I’ve been thinking about that a lot. It wasn’t something that’s particularly easy on the ears but I must have been a special kind of lonely to let you in that way. It makes me want to build a concrete bunker around my heart, if only to prove that you were the exception and not the rule. Wherever you are in this universe, I feel sorry for you, if that’s the extent of the tricks up your sleeve. I pity the fool who has to hear your endless recycling of the same broke ass lines and the only comfort I can get from knowing that I fell for that horseshit once upon a time is the fact that I don’t have to hear it now. How hard is it, huh? To see a lonely, hurting, and desperate person and have nothing better to do than to reel them in with false promises? Newsflash: There were times when you bored me so much I used to invent stories to get away. An errand, bad cell service, another call. I’d walk away relieved. The clouds would part for a precious few hours and I would realize how basic you were, how utterly boring it was all getting to be in comparison to what I actually had, which were admittedly serious problems, but never boredom. You were novacaine, you were a bottle of Everclear, you were fun in the moment but a bitch of a hangover and a rotten ache at the end of the day. Maybe when I was 22 or whenever it was that we first “dated”, I actually loved you, or felt something very close, but the second time around was just smoke and mirrors. And to think, the second time around was nothing. Some lame ass compliments on your part, you always needing my help for fucking everything, making me feel good for being useful, and somehow in my stupid brain your gratitude felt like love. Some phone calls and a vague idea of a visit, and I knew he was already talking to her so why the fuck couldn’t I have ”just a friend” too, you know? I was so tired of feeling like a fool, and you were perfect, because you lived far away and I would never be close enough for anything to happen. I was angry, and jealous, and you felt like a nice little “fuck you”. Even though I could hear you and see you through a screen, you were not real to me. You existed in some odd fantasy world where you manifested as some sort of a drug to distract me from the fact that I didn’t know how to save my relationship. When I’d wake up, I was always aware (and not wanting to admit it) that while real life was frustrating and confusing, at least I could put my hand on it. It was sharp, but it was real. You were slippery around the edges; things slid right off of you and I just sat in a icy puddle of your bullshit and was too tired to get up. You knew exactly what you wanted from me if you would have come here and it didn’t exactly involve heartfelt feelings. You wanted to finish what we started on that couch in that shitty apartment in Baton Rouge so many years ago, where I told you I was on my period but I really wasn’t, because deep down I knew you weren‘t going to pan out. I’m sure you could say right back that I wasn’t exactly stopping you in those lewd schemes of yours but I was kind of frustrated in that particular department at the time so I wouldn’t get on your high horse about it. I may have been pent up but I still wouldn’t have slept with you, even if I had been single. Believe it or not, my naughty bits know when an orgasm isn’t worth what I’m giving up for it. Evidently, it has more sense than I do. I was attracted to you, that’s no secret, but I was more attracted to the fact that you wanted to sleep with me at all. Fucking sad.

And hey, look-if you feel as if I’m doth protesting because my ass still carries some weird torch for you and I can’t deal with it, well, bless your heart, you just keep thinking that, if you like. It’s been two years since I deleted you and thanks to my compulsive blogging I actually know the date of when I grew some balls and pressed that button and every time that date rolls around I’m going to do a special little skip and a jump to celebrate that tiny bit of self respect that made me do it. You don’t need to know the date, because as far as you know, any day could be and is the anniversary of when I was done with your ass. Put on your Sunday best, kids, we’re going to fucking Sears.

I’m glad I saved these things because they remind me of the floor I don’t want to fall below again. I’m sorry I let you take my time and my attention and made me feel confused and even lonelier then I already was. If I had a choice between dealing with you and reliving all of the issues that I dealt with in my long term relationship, I’d choose the latter option, even if I had to relive all of them in a single day. Because that was real, and you are not, and I would rather bleed for something real then to hemorrhage over something false.