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Now I Get It

It wasn't ever about me or US. It's always been about your ego.

By Vanessa M. ThibeaultPublished 8 years ago 1 min read

Rain had fallen, leaving the earth feeling fresh.

It was a new season, a new chance,

Change was in the air.

Laughter, drinks,

I’m having a few too many,

Feeling not quite myself,

I ignore my gut, hoping it will go away,

Willing it to pass, to leave me alone for once,

I paid for my ignorance.

I’ve tired of the games,

I’ve tired of being strong, having to resist,

To be my own support and worst enemy,

I just want easy for once.

You just want my pants off.

I put her to bed,

She’s had more than me, 100lbs soaking wet, though my senior by 10 years,

Praying that with her sleeping next to me that you’ll find somewhere else to be,

Hoping, against all odds, that you’ll leave me alone.

I didn’t read her well.

I didn’t give you enough credit,

The sleaze that you are,

The persistence you had to add just one more way to hurt me.

To control me.

I shook, saying no, as your naked body pressed against hers.

Covers flying, slowly moved aside as I rose,

My emotions surprisingly intact.

You are nonchalant as her and I get out of bed,

And she leaves.

I drove her home as the dew in the grass still wet my naked feet on the pedals.

No words, no exchange.

She closed the door quietly while her unregretted, unemotional face thanked me for the ride.

Soon, too soon, I am home.

To a house that no longer feels like home,

The lingering feeling of a stranger has been here for more than the last four hours though,

It’s another one I’ve chosen to stupidly ignore.

“You had already started,” you tell me accusingly, “with her."

You’re asking why I didn’t want more, to continue.

I shake my head.

Am I clearing the cob webs of the drink from last night?

No.

I’m getting him out of my head and holding on to my memories.

All I wanted was to sleep, for once, just to rest.

We won’t speak of it again.

I’m thankful when the season changes.

sad poetry

About the Creator

Vanessa M. Thibeault

Writing to write; writing to feel; writing to change. What moves you?

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