I made our fucking divine for a second.

I, I did that. You, you received it. You commented on how good the sex was.

Not. Fair.

It gives me cramps. Not the fact that you ended up being a special nobody seeking me out during special moments of your loneliness – but the fact that I exercised wrong judgment. I hastily beautified you. I eyeballed perfection and forced you in. I built a pedestal for you. I got so carried away with this phantom of your love that it still haunts me. As if it is real.

As if. One day, you will wake up a cured man and kneel before me begging for purity.

As if.

You.

Ever.

Cared.

As if I didn’t make up every single molecule of this silly fictitious problem.

Fuck you, and fuck my wrong judgment.

One day, I will wake up a cured woman and I will celebrate you as a stranger.

Absolution, freedom, re-birth, my soul suddenly feeling warm and ready to live again.

How bizarre. You are…you were just one of those people I misfucked.

 

Photo credit: Victor Zamalin