One-hundred and Forty-seven: You Were Reading the Wrong Definition, Asshole.

I want to fuck someone else to your music.
I want to dance with strangers.
With strangers I wouldn’t be strange.
I want to let them touch me,
let them roam me;
a harlot’s revenge.

You did everything I thought.
I did nothing I thought.
You would touch me
and my body sighed but
my hands were trapped in my head.
I was a cage of songs but
I don’t know why I couldn’t sing.

I am used to dictating embraces, always
searching for a face that can take my stare,
but then, when you looked at me,
I stumbled.
My eyes knotted up.
My hands darted a staccato tune.
I locked myself in, let you lead
every time,
and then, I didn’t know how to stop.

So now I storm through crowds,
my eyes cool as marble,
tentacling control into every corner.
I am defiantly hurt.
I dare you to make me care.
My words are heavy and hard,
humid with regret.
Know this: I will never drop my stare again.
I will never whimper in intimidation
in the face of hope, and lose myself.
I will never forget the woman I am.

I am the woman who chose to give you her shadow
and then complained when you rejected it for something
more tangible: a certain je ne sais quoi.

You are not an open book.
I am a fucking dictionary.


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

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