Look at me – we are in this room in this house on a night where you are bored and lonely and want to prove that you can have skin on skin, lips against your neck, her purring your name, and I know how this works- you look at me, eyes half open, and I look like the stars but look at me, I am no constellation. I am the OPEN sign blinking, half-lit, on a motel lobby door.
I'm fun for the night. All quick comebacks and a ****-me smirk. Everything I say sounds like a challenge that I, by the end of the night, will have you dying to accept – because between the tequila and the beer and the fact that at least I am a body, tell me you won't say no.
I am not stupid. If this is happening it is because I am letting it. So go ahead, tell me that I am beautiful, that you want me, pull me into you and kiss me on the forehead, let me think that you care and I promise I will let myself believe it.
But don't think about, do not even think about, thinking about me the next day. Because I am one-time use and toss kind of woman. I am not the kind of girl that guys love. If I learned anything, in twenty years, it's that I am not an investment. I am a novelty.
I can no longer stand to fight facts. This is my white flag to the Universe. Because pretending to be something you are not is a pain worse than the ache of knowing.