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my curtains are far too open and everyone on the beach can look up into my well-lit room.
i wish i were at least half-lit right now, dropping my dignity like i drop my wit
and figuratively, would drop my panties if he were here.

brief text exchanges between me and three other people, while a dull visceral ache thunders in my belly. the lower left quadrant, specifically. perhaps it is hunger for food, or maybe i feel ill without him.

i dream about you every night, and every night i have nightmares. i don't want to forget last night, you were there, i hope it was as good for you as it was for me,
bitter words exchanged through neurons and synaptic trees.

i feel better when im angry, and you make the maddest i have ever been. congratulations, i have learnt to romanticise unhealthy behaviours, all on a whim.

your abuse is easy to confuse
with caring