I left my morals tucked in between the pages of the bible my grandmother gave to me this morning. I do that every day actually, I can’t help it. I don’t do it purposely, it just sort of happens. Every day before I get dressed I count the sweat stains on my t-shirt from the drops of sweat swollen with lust that edged down my back while he handled me. Then I count all the holes he punched into my heart too and try to figure out why he stuffs them with lies as if that’s suffice.
He hides around the corner from my bedroom every time he leaves to see if I’ll come out after him, I do, always. I am attached, I am stuck, I am pieces glued together in the shape of a woman, that is all I have ever been.
“Hold me… Tell me sweet things…” I say, caressing his beautiful, dark, brown face.
“Dude” he says. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you know the difference between fantasy and reality? That’s what a boyfriend would do, and I am not your boyfriend.”
His facial expressions are pained; he is annoyed, confused, and mostly burdened. He wants to leave; I tend to give him sufficient reasons to want to. I want to be honest and tell him, yes, I live in a fantasy world, always, but I don’t, I just laugh. All I can do is laugh at myself. I am a joke, that is all I have ever been.
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