23 Apr The Breakup
- the separation or breaking up of something into several pieces or sections.
- the end of a relationship.
She couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to be with her, she was beautiful! No only beautiful but actually attractive. She knew how to move… she knew how to talk. She was also smart and had a great sense of humor. Sex was great, she was sure of that. And she couldn’t remember one single time she had “a headache”. Tons of guys were interested in her. Tons. The messages wouldn’t stop. They have never stopped. Her DM was full. Girls too. All of them trying to get her. Or at least a piece of her. Compliments. Questions. Offers. Requests. So why the fuck!
He has other! Someone else! It’s the only plausible explanation!
But no. He just didn’t want to be with her.
Her head was a mess, her senses were a mess, her emotions a goddman rollercoaster. At some point she would think: “good for me, I’ll find someone better, I deserve someone better”. Other times she would try to understand what happened, think about what she could have done wrong, “I won’t repeat the same mistakes ever again”, she would assert herself in silence. Then she would let out a cry: “Fuck him! Fuck them! Fuck everything!”. Let out? No. The only evidence of such feelings were tears trying to make way to her eyes. But she would choke them. Strangle them. Drown them with a drink or two. She would gravitate round and round between anger, sadness and confusion. But no ice cream for her, oh, fuck no.
After dark she would put on her war paint. Dark eye liner, some blush, red lipstick. She didn’t need much. A look. A smile. At most a bite on the bottom lip. She fucked the guys. Other guys. She fucked them good. So good they couldn’t even comprehend. She turned them inside out. At first for some sort of vengeance, after all she kept herself “private” for just that one guy. Later for some sense of self-esteem. She needed to know. No, she knew. Reassurance, that’s the word. She needed reassurance. She needed some sort of “a second opinion”, let’s say. Actually… no. She needed to take back control. She needed to feel she was in control. Of herself, of her life, of her… destiny. She made herself known – “I’m here. I’m good. I’m better than you and you’re gonna fucking regret it.”.
He did regret it. At times. And that made her feel good. Powerful. A lascivious satisfaction. But that was besides the point. There was nothing wrong with her. But it would take years for her to truly know that.