I have spent too many cold nights

clawing at my own skin to rid it

of your essence;

too many nights with my hand between my legs

and tears on my cheeks

and have decided,

that you aren’t worth it.

You don’t love me.

And I may be confused as hell

but I’m pretty sure that I don’t love you

and this temporary madness

is a result of too many screws loose

too many fixations on past mistakes and

not enough steps into the future.

I will suck the familiarity of your name from my teeth

and spit

until my insides no longer contract at the sound of it…

and I know that somewhere inside of you

there is an understanding of just how messed up this is;

we have lived

on the brink of guilt tousled sheets

for the past eight weeks and I am tired

of second guessing myself

of over thinking

under eating

seething over the fact that

you clearly are not as bothered by this as I am.

I had that someone

that little piece of sugar pie honey bun

you know that I love you

but I screwed

and I screwed

and I screwed it up bad.

How can I even look him in the face

without comparing him to you?

and you knew

you knew what we were going through

but who am I kidding I can’t blame you

for my own poor decisions

desperation is not the greatest determinate for happiness

and I am not god.

I make mistakes.