“Where’s my shirt?” | January 22, 2018

“Where’s my shirt?”

Because you no longer desire to leave your body bare next to one who is not keen enough to notice that one birthmark you have right next to your spine. You’ve become so willing to strip off clothing that you have forgotten what it feels like to let someone see past your sexuality and into your being. You convince yourself that this has to do with freedom or feminism or whatever bullshit excuse, but yet you wake up in the morning on a bed that’s not yours. And the first thing out of your mouth is a clear cry for something that makes more sense. You’re ready to go, your mind is cleared up now. After all, you did just both fulfill your superficial desires. There’s no space left in that dark room for your spirit, you’d best keep that to yourself. And when your feet make it to the door, you turn around to make sure you still have a bit of worthiness left over. Still laying in bed, he opens his eyes, but doesn’t even bother to look at you long enough to say goodbye. Little does he know he’s never going to see you again. You’ve taught him bad habits and you’ve learned to keep coming back just to come – back to emptiness. No more. Of all things great about you, how you please a man is of the least value. You enter the Uber and say your morning greetings, but through his rear-view mirror he can see your partially rubbed off makeup from the night before. That’s enough conversation for the day. What you really need is a shower. But that won’t wash away the bodies that have laid on top of you and touched you though your memory recollects very little of any of those experiences. But you still scrub and scrub and exfoliate till you’ve listened to almost a quarter of an album through your tears. Your heart tells you this isn’t it. You deserve better. And for once ever, you listen to it.



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