hate

 I know I told you I don't want to know.

And so it is.

Or so I thought.

But the freedom of my imagination is so vast.

It corrodes me.

"Of course, he's with a different one every night."

Or, "He's undoubtedly fallen in love like never before. There won't be another for him."

I think about the color of their hair,

how they smell,

the tone of their skin.

I create elaborate scenarios about what they might have said to make you forget me so quickly.

I see them touching you,

your expressions when you make love to them.

I feel disgusted just writing it.

Your naked body on top of another.

Moaning and enjoying, not through me.

Suddenly, a clue.

And that photograph? Is it her?

I can't feel more hostile towards the female sex

than right now.

"She's awful, I outclass her a thousand times," I think.

"She's perfect," I continue.

"I understand why he prefers her," I conclude.

I hate knowing what she's like.

I hate that she's tall, blonde, slim - everything opposite to me.

I hate that my nightmares have a leading lady.

I hate thinking about her face framed by your hands.

Her bony fingers caressing your nose.

Her rabbit teeth explored by your tongue.

I hate knowing her name and imagining you whispering it in the humid night air.

I hate knowing that you do exactly the same things we used to do,

and that shows I wasn't your inventor.

In your list, each of us has occupied a similar place.

Entertain and fuel your passion when you're with us,

and then be buried in the deepest, muddiest mud

when you leave.

A departure that doesn't seem to affect you.

Have you told her about me? Not her, but someone.

Do you think of me?

I bet in your mind, I'm still

the greatest feast your ego has ever had.

And here I am, deceiving myself.

Assuring myself that I have nothing to reproach you for.

Because I don't. I wish I had the authority to do so.

I've spent eight months convincing myself that destiny wants us together.

Every day that passes makes it abundantly clear

that destiny doesn't matter much if you don't desire its rule.

I don't want to cry anymore. Or miss you more.

I want to stop thinking of us as a sedative to fall asleep.

Stop rubbing my skin raw with a sponge when someone else touches me.

I know I told you I don't want to know.

And so it is.

Or, at least, I so I thought.

I don't know if I prefer not to know who your new me is or

for you to come and tell me every detail.

At least that way, I could be certain that for her, you feel

what I always begged God you felt

when you were with me.