For 2 and a half years you have kept me all to yourself. This started with a chance flirtation; a sudden twist of words, the corner of your mouth turned upward giving away your momentary intentions.
Words passed between us in invisible ink, disappearing hours after reading, I have nothing to fall back on… nothing to reflect upon now that it’s actually over. No souvenir of our time together aside from a mostly empty jar of massage cream.
You once warned me of men who would want me, who I was and wasn’t allowed to play with. You took them from me, pulling your politics into my separation of church and state. We shared one kiss, one I asked for in an effort to taste me lingering on them. You would wait days, weeks between invitations into your hands and take away the moments I shared with men who wanted more than my flesh.
I told you that my bed was “Vegas, baby… what happens here stays here.” And then it suddenly wasn’t. I still hear his voice in surround sound, telling me to tell the truth, telling me he’ll call me when it’s safe, telling me he’d been demoted because of us. Us. Because of you. It wasn’t your place.
You were selfish then. You are selfish still. I spilled everything just a few weeks back, still silly bitter that you were moving away. I spilled all my frustrations that you had this way of twisting and tying me in knots and then bring the strings holding me together so close to being untangled just to knot them back together again. How it was a jerk move and I didn’t understand your reasoning, what did you get from this? Where was your reward? Should I have been disrespectful? Should I have lured you to “Vegas?” Opened my mouth to use my big girl voice as I once told you to do the same with your big boy voice? Should I have asked about her? Made you say her name? Would this have carried on as long as it did?
I looked back on our conversations, seeking to see the grey areas between the black and white on the screen. Everything that meant anything was written in invisible ink and I see that now. I see that I’m too late to raise my voice. I’m too late to make that move. Too late to whisper “checkmate” in your ear as you have me tortured against your front door, denying my exit. You should have used your words and I shouldn’t have overstayed my welcome.
