I know what this is and what this isn’t. I haven’t deluded myself into thinking anything else. Don’t worry, I don’t see you taking me out to dinner or holding me on the couch while we fight over what movie to watch. I don’t see you introducing me to your friends or taking me home to mom and dad. I don’t even see you holding my hand in a situation other than walking me out of the bar or leading me through your complex and upstairs to your bed (if even that).
I know there isn’t a story to write here. I know there’s no words to speak other than the ones between moans while we roll around your rumpled sheets. I know when you called me baby at 4 AM while inside of me you didn’t mean it. I know there’s nothing behind the way we kiss, the way you drink me in or hold my face by the chin to look at me. I know there’s nothing behind the way you ran your fingers through my hair and the way you kissed me on the forehead after sex. It doesn’t mean anything when you hold me after and we go to sleep, you just like how my body feels, and that’s okay. I’m not getting any ideas about the way I caught you looking at me while you thought I was still dreaming.
I know these things because I’ve been here before. I know these things because our texts don’t surpass anything beyond sporadic superficial flirting. I know this because you’ve never asked me questions other than do you like that, because you’re not interested in who I am and you’ve never wanted to hear my story. I know this because I’m not even sure if you know my last name. And I am one hundred percent certain that you’ve never read any of my poetry. I don’t think you even remember that it’s what I do, who I am, that I write poetry.
I know I’m not the girl you fall in love with, or the girl you even chase, because you’ve never even bothered to offer me wine, take me out for drinks, or take me somewhere to eat dinner. I know it’ll never be more than what it is because you’ve never even tried to make plans to purposely see me or run into me. No, the only plans you ever make with me come when closing time is coming near, or on nights or random days you’re bored and need a little entertainment. That’s what I am – a good time. To you I’m the girl who’s up for anything, the one who makes that noise when you hold her by a fistful of her hair, the one who parts her lips the way you like when your hand is around her neck, the one who is always willing to try anything, the one who is always willing period.
I’m not the girl you text good morning to or think about in the middle of your day. In fact, you never think about me at all, no, not unless it’s late or your body is feeling some kind of way. You don’t ask me how my day was or hope you’ll see me in the evening. I’m not the girl you want to talk to. You will never tell me about your father’s favorite song, that scar you got as a little kid, or most twisted thing you never thought you’d be able to share with anyone else. No, I’ll never see that gleam in your eye when you talk about your dreams and aspirations. And you’ll never ask me about mine. You’ll never be interested in anything that lays beneath my skin, in what makes my heart run rampant.
I must admit. Part of me, just a tiny part, is a little saddened by this. But the bigger part of me knows better. The bigger part of me knows not to dwell on it. The bigger part of me is just too empty to care lately. I know I’ll never be the girl you chase. I’ll never be the girl you fall in love with. Some weekend nights I just put on my lipstick, go out, get my last call drink and wonder if you’ll text me at 2 AM. Sometimes I don’t wonder and just do.