"Who should I call in the event of an emergency?"

I'll scroll through my phone and pretend there is someone that could come running to my rescue.

"This is what you wanted God. Right?"

I've overstayed my welcome in every home I've lived in.
I've driven away all those I love into the hands of sleep.
An excuse to escape me.
And I'm letting go.
I'm giving in.

"Can I come over? I don't want to be alone tonight."

People don't like things they don't understand.

mommy's first mistake.
hair and eyes the color of freshly mixed mud.
too small and lumpy.

passed off to daddy like a hot potato.
that potato grew.
and now i'm daddy's regret too.

Roller derby, disco.
Bump and grind
On the dance floor.
Drink some punch,
Sip some wine.
Party, party, people.
Flirty, *****, girly girl.
Do a spin,
Flail and twirl,
Dip, but do not fall.

All of these
And many more
You're sure to learn
In a year or four.

baby grew up
and baby turned bad.
but all the babes liked her,
which made her daddy mad.

stick your thumb in my mouth,
Alleyway, alley cat.
scritch
scritch
scratch

I hereby solemnly swear - to you I'll bow.
Between your knees.
Wedged between your thighs,
while I stare up at your face -
into your bloodshot (deceptive) eyes.

You act like no one's ever called you a **** before.
But that can't be true,
cause you're the devil himself.
You do what feels good.
"To take the edge off," you say as you promise to be okay.

I don't believe you.
You're not sincere.
Because the first time we met - you weren't wearing underwear.

You degenerate.
You minx in the prime of her youth.
I'll love you and use you,
but only because you asked me to.

i'm tired of defending myself.
the things I do or don't do.
sick of explaining the way I'm feeling
and the reason behind my means to cope.
the less fight I put up,
the more attacked I feel.

I don't want to talk
because you don't like the things I have to say.
They're too negative
or I don't say them with enough zest.

I vent to you and I can see the hurt it causes.
I hold it in and I seem short.
What is the use.
I try, only to have the worst assumed of my good intentions:
"Don't make a thing out of this (you argumentative *****)."
So maybe I should quit trying so **** hard
(if i'm just going to end up wrong either way).


******* out of here.
I'm sick of being sorry.
(I'm allowed to have off days too.)

I used to be pretty. My skin once pitted deep around my collarbones as if my skin were being pulled so taut, the bone nearly burst through it.
He said: “I’m not going to pretend there aren’t times when I won’t go down on you for the sheer fact that I fear being smothered by the cellulite of your thighs.”
He said if I wanted to be told I was pretty I should be with a man that says yes more than he says no.
He said: “I’m not for the weak of heart.”
But he overlooked the fact that it’s my ego that’s weak.
So I punch at my thighs until I’m certain they’ll bruise. And when I wake up in the morning with legs blotched purple - I will remember what stands in my way of reaching the realm of perfection.
He said: “Love means I don’t have to be careful with my words. Means I don’t have to withhold what I want to say.”

And I believed him.