He didn’t stay. He never does. Why would he, we have nothing in common.

We fucked so good the sheets fell off the bed. I thought I was good at what I did. I felt special.

He didn’t complain. He also didn’t stay. The two are mutually exclusive, but the whole thing makes me feel like I was used up. But that’s what I wanted, right? That’s what I said I wanted, right? That was what I told him I wanted, right? I keep trying to convince myself, but it’s not making sense.

How did I consent to feeling violated?

He doesn’t know any of these thoughts in my head. He doesn’t even look me in the eye.


“In Lakota culture, it is a sign of disrespect to look an elder directly in the eye. You look down out of respect.”

Tell that to my dad. Him staring at the ground while walking due to his low self-esteem was actually him being respectful?


He always leaves. I don’t need him. And I don’t need to see him. I walk in any direction, and he is there. But I don’t see him. You can’t see someone if you don’t look. And I have nothing to look at.

But it happens again and again.

I must really like this shit. I think of all the reasons not to fuck him, and I still end up alone in my bed smelling like him.

At least I feel something. At least I am mature enough to open wide, consume, and expel a man without thinking about it. Can Nick do that? He’s still holding on to the same one. I can’t imagine seeing him. Seeing him trying to be happy in his fuckery.

Am I any better? Two peas in a pod, I guess. I wonder, if it was Nick that I slept with, would he stay?


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