The smell of your cologne won’t leave my duvet
I’ve sprayed my bed twice with Febreze. Twice.
What was the name of it again?
I know I asked, meant to memorize
Meant to buy you more for your birthday or Christmas or whenever you ran low
The smell was intoxicating…

I guess that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

It’s strange because I second guessed the entire time.
I analyzed and overthought and questioned it all.
I asked chatGPT if I was going crazy, had it
Analyze and overthink and question
And even AI assured me that my worries seemed in vain for once.

I guess it doesn’t matter

It’s always when those thoughts
I don’t deserve this, I can’t deserve this
Turn into something else
maybe this is meant for me
That the shoe drops so spectacularly that
It only takes 12 hours
To change the course
Of my heart

And it’s super strange
Because I’ve asked my friends, strangers
ChaptGPT
And no one else can understand
The trajectory
But when AI is comforting me…
12 hours is not enough
to change the course
Of your heart

I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?

I thought I was goddess

Worshipped, desired, wanted

Beautiful, powerful, divine

I was reminded again that I
Will never be
Anything

I don’t know if “disarming” is a good enough word for this

Like, my brain melted
Like, my heart went with it
Like, somehow the runoff migrated far down south
Like, holy ******* **** you’ve got to be kidding me


I don’t know if “crush” is a strong enough word for this

Like, my brain’s a mess
Like, my heart along with it
Like, somehow the chaos feels less overwhelming
Like, holy ******* ****, it can be this good?


I don't know if “lust” is a right enough word for this

Like, my brain’s on fire
Like, my heart’s in my pants
Like, when did touch become such a temptation
Like, holy ******* ****, can you kiss me already?

I am so sick of men
ruining
Love and lust
Promising
Devotion and Desire
Giving
******* and lies

There’s a you sized hole in my chest right now
That’s reminiscent of hopes and dreams
And the taste of chocolate chips and salty flesh
And guilt and desire

And I wonder why I always expect this to hurt less.

It is Friday night and the only ***** getting licked is Loki, the orange tabby at the end of my bed.

I’ve gotten used to the monotony of sleepwalking through life, graveyard shift be ******

Every time I reach for a flicker of something of anything
All I get is burned

So I trudge and ignore the glances and find my chargers and cry in the shower.
So I blister and bruise and bend and break time and time again
Just to be wrong
Just to always be wrong

“It’s Valentine’s Day, that’s why we don’t have school.”

“Nobody actually gives a **** that it’s Valentine’s Day, kid. I love you, but it’s not a real holiday.”

I used to write love letters. Now I don’t write at all.