You Make Me Somebody That I Hate

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Clem Onojeghuo / Unsplash

Most nights, like clockwork, my phone lights up sometime past midnight. I know without looking that it’s you. I know without picking up my phone that you’re asking me to come over.

Most nights, like clockwork, I agree.

I meet you and I am transformed.

I am clouded mind, glazed eyes, gasping for a breath I can’t seem to catch.

I am late nights, late texts, last resort.

I am closed doors, lights off, eyes squeezed shut.

I am shedding clothes like a second skin, peeling layers of insecurities hidden beneath a few octaves of moans.

I am closing in on myself and opening up to you at the same time and my mind and body are on completely different pages but this is my favorite book.

Your fingers flip through the index of my spine, shuffle through the chapters and I shiver against your open hands pressed flat against the small of my back.

This is January against my July flesh, your body melting against mine, ice against fire; you send flames through my body, bone deep, teeth chattering as they sink into the patch of skin between your neck and collarbone.

Smooth skin, hard stomach, firm, quaking under the indention of my fingernails. I am quick fix, the answer to late night frustration, a 2 am phone call to an unsaved number.

It is thundering outside your window but the real storm is raging inside me. There is lighting in your fingertips, hands running through my hair, sweat raining down your body, tangled in your sheets; you’re breaking me down, leaving me tangled up in myself.

I am searching for clothes in the pitch black, hands clutching for the door knob, arms wrapped around my body as I shut down, shut the door quietly.

I am silent car rides home, empty streets, dim lights, the taste of you lingering, the smell of you tainting; I still feel the singe of every part of my body that’s been burned by your fingerprints.

You are the only form of love I’ve ever known, and I am the only one you’ll never love. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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