the direct route

Posted: January 2, 2012 in otiose

I don’t want to see you.
You’re flaky at best, and nothing you can offer me is worth
bending back
jacking up
painting on
or shaving off what I’ve got going.

I don’t really care that much that you have a drunk girl in your bed right now
while everyone on the day job just found out today
that I sleep on my floor.

I put up with a ten minute exchange about how I should get a bed
and why it’s weird that I don’t have one.

On nights when I want one, I borrow
and on particularly shitty nights, if you’ll recall,
I’ll make you volunteer to take your own floor while I feel out a place on your mattress.

When I want someone to choke me and spit in my face, I don’t come to you.
I don’t expect to be for you what that drunk girl is.
We’re not in competition.

I don’t have sparkly vanilla mango lotion bronzer
and I don’t even know what to do with women that do…
I’d rather taste salt from sweat than cocoa butter and wood alcohol,
so I don’t have a drunk girl from the club passed out in my blankets.
That you know what to do and want to…

Telling me about it is a little bit sad, but…thanks.

I’m going to keep what I do predominately to myself
because you’re not involved, precisely because I don’t want you involved,
because just like I know that I have very limited common ground
with the girl you’re with now
I’m also filling in gaps with individuals possessing qualities
I enjoy
that you lack.

I don’t know what you want from me.
I haven’t met up with you in months
since you asked me to be a specific way that I’m not,
and despite recanting in the wake of my stubbornness in an attempt to salvage an ever malleable potential

I’m still not.

I’m not sad because I’m alone, getting ready to attempt sleep after the flip of an arbitrary Gregorian calendar year. Yes, I’m an unhappy person, and you’re right that I dismissed any celebratory actions over the weekend.

I actually worked the entire duration much like any other weekend, but you know.
I work a lot “and still no money,” because I’m one of those strange birds that pays the bills before buying dinner.

Thanks for calling though.
For thinking of me while you’re happy without me.
I’m sure she’s beautiful and all that thrillingly satisfying jazz.
I’m sorry if I somehow…detracted from the joy of your life

by sitting here completely minding my own business.

Substitutions make poor replacements, but feel free to call again when you’ve decided to openly admit that I’m what you want.
Otherwise, I’d rather not hear from you again.


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