Digital Lover
The stain of desperation soaks itself into my pale skin, forever ruining the goodness that once hid within.
I believed myself to be smarter than the girls who would idiotically pressed send, punctuating on the beginning of a reality that would soon end. To submit themselves to a digital identity of a man, one who never whispered innocent sweet promises in the quiet of night as they laid within his arm span. Instead they fell for the carefully put together letters forming such lines of poetry, knotted together so gently, that one day they each find themselves hanging from a tree. To believe a false face only visible in six inches, yet we constantly fall for his wishes. To please a man we know nothing of, all because he calls us his sweet little dove. Why, I ask, do we do this? Falling perfectly in line, each one behind, never learning from the tears that streak our face and acting like it is all fine. Are we not worthy of respect, even in the digital aspect? Must I continue to scream into the warming wind as it brushes against my buzzing skin? Must I watch those three grey dots pop up only to disappear, sparking inside my chest something close to fear? Fear of affection? Fear of rejection?
Yet, here I lay upon my bed at night, desperately waiting for you to rewrite. To acknowledge me as your own, even in the secret darkness of the phone.