I remember the running and laughing and jumping over puddles and the sex, and the sex, and the sex, and the sex. Actually, I don’t really remember the sex so much as I remember the locations where it happened in my apartment, and that it was good.
I like taking wet clothes off, and I liked taking your wet clothes off. I remember hiding behind blinds the next day, but not for as long as I would have liked, because you had to go to a thing with your girlfriend’s family.
After you left, I went back and looked at my still-wet clothes on the floor and wondered whether I was using you, or using him, or getting used, or whether it all mattered. My upstairs neighbors were listening to their damn Pearl Jam album again, and I had a desperate sense of futility.
I hate relationships. They make me feel trapped. But I hate even more not being in them. There’s that place inside me that nothing can fill except someone who’s promised to be there, and to stay there, no matter what. What always ends up mattering, but as long as someone’s promised, I can believe and be content.
I hate writing about shit like this, but the alternative is just sitting here alone in the rain and eating myself alive. Here’s a piece of me for you to glance at, lick, taste, chew, spit out, ignore, whatever. It’s out of my system now.
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