I’m Sorry I’ve Been Using You

The blinds are shut and the only shadows cast are on my heart. I called you to meet me but you’re not mine. I treat you like we are something, which is strange, because we are nothing. Has this gone too far?

We are not even a wisp of dust under my bedpost or a lost kiss that reminds my lips we once made a lasting memory.

We’re just two strangers — strangers — which is why it’s even stranger, that you’re his best friend.

Why does loneliness ride the carousels of our hearts? Are we scared to have our ashes spread with no one to contain them? Can we live on someone’s shelf if we cannot live in their remembrance?

You tell me you’re a lover but all you do is deconstruct the bones of my soul, lacerating my joints with silent eyes, desire. You use the words of a man who has only seen love but never felt it.

I talk for hours while the inside corners of your cheeks scoff at my garrulity. I want to believe there is a shyness to you, a honey dipped sweetness that eclipses in callousness. But you show nothing except lust.

I wrap your fingers around my tongue — we lay chest to chest and I feel nothing. Your heart is a sojourner and mine is still. Where does your heart wander when you are pressed against me?

I don’t want you — no— but my skin makes you thirsty — and now that it’s over, now that he has moved on, my ego is thirsty.

I need to know that I can have you — but frankly, I don’t want you. Why do you make this so easy?

We’ve invented a game where we never pass go. Maybe there’s something between us, maybe I could love you, if I still didn’t love him.

I’m sorry I’ve been using you but I can’t taste revenge when it’s this sweet.