I wrote this months ago. I don’t why I didn’t post it then.
Did he ever wake up and smell the coffee? You know, I was willing to drink green tea for him. I never told him that. I never told him a lot of things. God forbid he saw me in more than two dimensions. He took a picture of me and scrawled it’s official over my face. Is he stupid? Why stroke my photograph when he could hold my hand? Am I stupid? All he wanted to stroke was his ego. There are so many women to fuck but he chose to fuck me over instead.
I love men, I do. I love the curve of their muscles, the depth of their voices, the stubble on their jawlines. I love how, if I walk a certain way, their eyes eat me up. I love the way my fury amuses them. They don’t realise that somewhere out there is a woman just like me, that each of them discarded, trying to bring other men to their knees to make up for what he did to her.
I like to rough them all up just by the way I look at them. Few of them dare to stare, not now, not anymore. I am unapologetically ruthless, zapping electric currents, shooting up with joint with machine gun eyes, wondering who will be the last man standing. Except it probably won’t be a man.
I am making an art of it: the lowered lashes, the purring voice, the gentle flutter of my fingers at my throat. I vow to be the Gilda, the Mildred, the Holly of this decade. Every gesture is intentional and sensual. My answers are lucidly elusive. I am charmingly broken, a desirable amalgamation of strength and vulnerability. They don’t know what I am thinking and this is exciting. This is so amusing; they are so easy. This feels like champagne in my veins. I am going to steal a star from every man’s heart to fill up the tiny crack in mine. That is how big my heart is.
I said, You can’t be a good woman and an interesting one, and he agreed. Well fuck being a good woman because a good woman is still just a fuck.
Don’t talk like that, you’re a nice girl.
Why do you hate us?
There’s something about you.
I just wanted to fuck you.