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I know there’s no story to be told. No promises to be kept. No tears to be shed. I know this because I know you. I know how your mind works. I know you didn’t mean it when you said you loved me. That actually, when you said it, a collage of pretty, skinny, barbie doll girls popped into your mind, and you could have been speaking to any one of them. Take your pick. I’m sure they’d all jump at the opportunity to be your sunshine. I know our yesterdays are over, our tomorrows will never come, and our hearts beat in different patterns. I know your intentions were never sincere and your words never truthful. I know I’ll always be the body you desire to touch, yet never the mind you yearn to explore.
I’m back in your bed. Back in your arms. Your breathing is on my neck and your arm is clutched tightly around my waist. I know I’m the only one lucky enough to receive that lonely 3 AM text from you, but I know that’s all I’ll ever be. The after thought. The second option. The back up plan when closing time sneaks up on you and your eyes are bloodshot, breath reeking of whiskey and it’s a bit too hard to stand. I know what head you’re thinking with when you decide it’s time to make an appearance in my life, and I know it definitely isn’t the one on your shoulders.
Because that’s all I ever was to you when we dated. I was the body that kept you company. The arms that kept you warm. The lips that showed you tenderness from your collarbones to the tips of your fingers. The waterfall you got to taste over and over again. And you always wanted to taste more. You wanted me until you were drowning, but once you realized you were gasping for air you’d climb out of my ocean and straight out of my life. Water-filled lungs and all.
I know you’re hazardous. Know you’re detrimental to my health. I know I’m nothing more to you than a few hours to kill and a body to fill. I know you see me as something to be conquered, an object to be won. But even my willingness to fill your void isn’t enough to satisfy your desire. You’ll keep calling, I’ll keep coming, and we’ll make sure this never makes it past 5 AM.
I know who I’m placing the blame on here and I know who I’m saying is at fault. And I know that maybe I deserve a share of the blame because I should have known better but I like to believe the voices in my head screaming how much of an idiot I was being were, for once in my life, wrong. I like to believe that the fire you ignited in my bones and the scars you left along my skin weren’t signs of danger but rather traces of your love that never fully knew how to evaporate.
The truth is I’m tired of clinging on to something that doesn’t even have a voice. I’m tired of turning people into monuments and replaying their every word like some sort of inner monologue I need to rehearse and learn in order to be whole.
Do you think I don’t know what I am to you? Right now, as I type these words I realize that I keep writing about you. My words are the reason you’re still breathing. I’m keeping you whole while you swallow every last bit of me. Right now I’m just a body to you. I’m an object to touch. To get high off of. To sink yourself into in order to feel something for a minute or two. I’m the girl you want at 3 AM. The girl you want to devour. To conquer. To tuck away at the top of your bookshelf for safe keeping, where I’ll remain until the next time you feel lonely and sorry for yourself.
I’ll always be the girl you want to sleep with. I’ll always be the girl you want to hold on your lonely, blurry nights. I’ll always be the girl that’s broken, because you never quite knew how to put me back together when you were done with me. I’ll always be that girl. But what I’ll never be is the girl you want to wake up next to.