Nothing pretty about it

Saturday, February 27

By Lisa Porter

I wanted to feel alive,

I had been dead for weeks.

But then that feeling came again,

unexpectedly ,

fleeting moment of dirty mouths, and half truths.

Me thinking it could go back to the way it was.

That sunken couch, in the too dim room.

The cat playing at our feet.

I could get used to this, I had thought.

Saying his last name after my first, silently in my head.

It fits, this is how it should be.

The chime of your phone, the too bright glow of the text.

I swear I wasn't trying to look.

Who else had your attention at midnight?

I foolishly felt lucky, like you picked me out of everyone,

But the dead feeling in my bones shows me, 

you only picked me because the crumpled bed sheets fit better around 2 bodies instead of 1

and your body needed stroking as much as your ego,.

Who wanted to go to bed alone?

In the morning, when you roll off of me, and I turn my back to catch my breath,

I know that the feeling of being full and then suddenly being empty will  stick with me, like the sheets stick to my back.

That sex is just fucking, nothing pretty about it.

A fix you need and then move on.

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