Writing

[pussythrobs]

It fuckin hurts

you take her to the places

we once knew

[pussythrobs]

So was your love for me nothing but a storm?

You fell in a deep love for me. 

But it was over as soon as the skies cleared.

[pussythrobs]

Yesterday you said that you don't like my profile picture. You said it reminds you of things you don't want to remember. Things you'd rather forget. It's an ugly memory for you. I broke into a million tiny shards of glass when you said that. 

You confirmed what I feared the most. 

To become an ugly painfull memory.

[pussythrobs]

We were unhappy together and now I've lost you to her.

[pussythrobs]

Without makeup I look like a boy, or a very ugly woman. I prefer boy. I have this rash on the inside of my thighs that keeps me a virgin. I have really bad acne on my face that helps keeping me a virgin without me having to take off my clothes. 

[pussythrobs]

Ik zal nooit vergeten wat je zei: 

"We zouden perfect zijn."

[pussythrobs]

She was in love with me. Where I'd describe myself as fat,  she'd describe me as soft.

[pussythrobs]

She's in love with someone else now.  She looks happy. She is happy. When she was in love with me she was never happy. 

[pussythrobs]

I like the smell of second hand smoke. Especially in a car or on a brown leather jacket.

[pussythrobs]

I want you to hurt me,

I want to give you that power. Because at least you'll do something to me. I'd rather be with you and be hurt, than be alone and feel nothing at all.

[pussythrobs]

I'll break her, like she broke me.

[pussythrobs]

The smell of cheap cologne and cigarettes.

That day I smoked all my cigarettes. But I could still taste his cheap cologne and the self hatred set deep down my throat. I could still feel his tongue sliding across my neck. I could still remember me pretending to like it.

I felt disgusted by myself. What the FUCK was I doing. What the FUCK is wrong with me. In that instant I knew that I didn't care much for boys. And I didn't care much for girls. I didn't care much for anyone to be quite frank. Not even my own mental health.  "What's wrong babe? Just do it. Glide your hand over there. Yes just like that. Damn that feels so good. Take off your shirt, please?" "No." "Please take it off ,babe, please?" "No please don't make me do that." 

"What's wrong babe?" "Nothing, let's just go take a smoke?" "We will smoke after you've put your hand over there, okay?" "No, I don't want to anymore." He ruïned my favourite song. He stole it from me. I couldn't hear the song or I would hear him sing it. I could taste him again. Smell him again. Feel his hands again.  I didn't use him. He used me. He didn't long for me, and it all felt wrong. How could I have become this wreck filled with self-pity?