One-hundred and Forty-two: Mine

This is my Fuck You Dress.
Those are not my Break Up Heels.
This is not our First Date Bar.
I admit the first,
I admit the second,
but we are almost there
when I admit the last.
I insist.
I want there to be less of you in everything.
You see, the problem is, I am always the same.
These are my clothes,
these are my bars,
there are my hands,
and I had started letting you in on everything.
I held back and you stopped wanting me but
at the same time,
I held back and  you stopped wanting me and everything was still mine.
This is how pain works.
You always think you’re fine until
you fuck up
yet again.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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