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
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
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.