I could keep them like tallies. Unable to decipher the difference between conquests and lovers scorned. 

Etched in the wall through scratches and burns. Some through passion, some betrayal. Some of nothing at all.

I could keep them like tallies, if only I could keep them.

I could plan their demise. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Occupying space in my mind without paying a cent. Evading your rent like you evade my messages. 

Use, wash, rinse and repeat. My sex is on a spin cycle that rotates but never cleans.Do you want me when I’m dirty or only when I’m wet?

I’ll never be that freshly creased shirt with the tags still on. There are tears and marks that will never fade. I’m well used and worn in. My collar is toughened from time. Weather the storm, then weather the weather. 

Vintage and valuable or second hand and donated. The price is in the eyes of the purchaser.

What did you see in me and how did that change? A passing fad that loses it charm after single use.

You like to believe you’re one of a kind. That you’re noble. But really you’re no different than the dozens before you and the dozens after. Maxwells. Bens. Antonios. Johnnys. A tapestry of lovers to keep me warm. Stitched together to cover the exposed holes that multiply. The scraps I collect, ultimately town from my fingers. Callous on top of callous makes it more difficult to grasp. easier to let go. I try not to think, not to care but you have made me furious. But anger and frustration must meld into indifference.

Am I foolish or have they bested me? When I am two steps ahead there is always room for the rug to be pulled and I am back where I started. Where I thought I gained, I am left with empty pockets. Ready to give my belongings away to the first person who will take them, yet cautious of thieves.

You are not a thief. Most of them weren’t. But me, I am crazy. Needy. Easy. Me, I overreact. I should be patient. I should hope. Hoping and waiting. Wishing and praying. Passive and immobile. Waiting for kill. Waiting for dead. 

I was an easy target, yet still posed a challenge. Something to pass the time. Somewhere to stay. Somewhere to feel important. To feel wanted. To feel success. I am your conquer. I am your kill. I understand the means of predator and prey.  But I refuse to be prey. Even when bloodied and dead. I regenerate. 

To emote for you is to provide you with something. To provide you with thought. With feeling. 

Revenge is a dish best served cold or not served at all. To believe you affected me I would need to care. I would need to respond. So I numb myself. I tell myself what is necessary. Even when it is I who suffers the worse end of the tale I weave. All for the sake of not caring. For not giving you that satisfaction you may not want at all. 

I favor the long con. Words that stick like knives are still only knives. I want a burn that scorches long after I leave, long after I remember. I want a burn that may heal but every so often you may rub your fingertips over the edges that lay jagged over your skin. It takes you a moment but you are reminded. Of me. Of you when you were. I hope you’re different. I hope you change. Mostly, I hope you remember. I hope you’re left thinking when I’m not. How carefully and calculated I’ve forgotten about you. 

Anger, sadness, scorn. All are energy. Energy wasted. Wasted on one not deserving.

The worst burn. The best burn. Is not caring. You’re another Maxwell, Johnny or Ben. Another hole in the tapestry, whose material fades and blends into the Peters, Martins, and Pauls.

They may not occupy a seat in my mind. Because really the lack of existence is the worst way. The best way.

Revenge is power and power is control. Control you do not have and never will. I don’t hate you. To hate you I have to think of you. You don’t register on the scale.

Nothing was real. You spoke and I listened. But your story is over now. And you will not determine how mine is told.