by Talicha J.
I’ve turned my self-esteem into a bag of tricks, now he can pull pieces of me out at his will.
Sleep lost waiting on him to respond to a failed attempt at communication is a nightmare eyes opened.
His silence is a slap in the face and spit at my feet.
Does he care that he turns me into a self-deprecating being,
beating myself up every time he lets me down.
And I don’t even like him!
Call me selfish and I will call you right.
I don’t really want him, I just want him to want me and so now I’m left wanting something I never even wanted in the first place!
I’d be eager to crawl between bed sheets just to feel close, but I only seem to find myself between silence, pretending I don’t care that he doesn’t care, remember I don’t even like him, I don’t even want him…
Yet here I am writing about him…
Thing is, I’m not writing about just him. I’m writing about them all.
At times I have lain myself at the feet of another, willing and ready to open just a piece of myself, yet I wind up waiting.
Wanting to be wanted is a desperate yet completely valid vicious cycle I frequent as though it were a bar conveniently positioned round the corner,
where I’d slide off the bar stools of self-worth while slamming back shots of rejection one after another
Lust, lush, sloppy, staggering, I am no such thing, but close enough.
His touch means absolutely nothing but it feels like something,
Like someday, like give it time and it’ll work itself out, like maybe you really can’t hurry love, but it’s not love I’m rushing into these days.