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08.12.09

You know, the only time when you're honest about who you are is when the lights go out at night. It's because you don't have to face yourself and when you wake up in the morning you'll forget the truth anyways. Besides, if you do recall what you saw and said and heard you can pass it off as just another nightmare.

I'm scared of who I'm becoming. A wretched, washed up, sloth-like woman with no ideals, no standards. I can't bring myself to pick you apart and realize you're just the same as me. We should change you know. Take an axe to our present selves. Figuratively of course.

I wish I was with you for a real reason. Not just because you make me feel better about myself. You don't challenge me, you don't inspire me. Hell, all you do is flatter me; compliment me; dote on me. Or at least you do when you want me to stop bitching. And look at what you are. You're digusting, a slob and lazy. You drink too much and you pay too many women. Its not like I don't know, I'm just scared to think that I might not be able to score any better. It's sad that your shitty treatment actually makes me think a little better of myself. That's how fucked up my self-image is.

I thought I was in love once. I was sixteen and he had a year or three on me. I was wreckless and lovesick and couldn't keep my goddamn mouth shut, or my legs for that matter. He knew he had me trapped. Relationship dynamics were far beyond me. I moved too fast, or at least that's what I like to tell myself. I should just accept that he never intended on going anywhere with me. He just wanted me for the sex. His schedule often ran as such: He came to my house, he came in my house (and me) and he left. On occasion I might have been lucky to get a goodbye kiss. Bastard.

Since then I don't do love. Opening your legs is much easier than opening your heart.