/kənˈso͞omiNG/

Journal

It’s one thirty in the morning – I just got home from work. Should be sleeping, in about six hours my alarm is gonna go off so I can get up and clock on to stand in a box and sell movie tickets for eight hours.

But I’m not sleeping.

How could I sleep after the day I’ve had?

exactly twelve hours ago I was laying exactly where I am now, except there was a mans lap beneath my head. His hands were combing through my golden hair and his eyes were gazing upon me like I was something magnificent. He smelled like he put on too much cologne. He was skinny. Curly brown hair. Wore a cute beanie and I actively try to ignore that if he and Leo were blurred images, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

I like to think that the things I feel for him are completely separated and not just manifestations of the things I felt for Leo.

I like to think that.

But I don’t believe it’s true.

When he holds me, I feel comforted. But when he fucks me, I can’t finish. The pleasure I got was not fulfilling after the fact, even when he kisses my forehead.

But the good news is, at least I don’t have these same feelings directed at Leo anymore. They have been separated. I’m not jealous about stupid things anymore. I don’t really care what he thinks anymore. I’m not constantly wondering about him anymore.

But when I’m on my knees refilling the popcorn seeds, and he’s standing there getting popcorn – the fact that my head is level with his dick still comes to mind. It still kinda turns me on.

But I remind myself about everything that has happened – all of the stupid shit he has done and said, when I remember that this is the same guy who doesn’t care enough about me to ever talk to me, I suddenly care so little.

Because he is never going to care about me.

Not if I sacrificed myself at the guillotine like Sydney Carton.

Not if I gave my first born child to save his life.

Not if I walk one hundred miles on hot coals to be by his side.

Leo will never care about me.

Not the way I want.

It seems so ridiculous, he is just a regular guy. Someone I have placed on a high pedestal and determined was special by some code. But he’s not. Realizing how regular he is was the turning point in the road for me. He’s this guy, a plain old regular dude, and even when I know this, he is special.

Maybe no one else sees it.

Maybe all of my friends will call him trash.

Maybe they will all think he’s a low life who can’t seem to get life straight.

But me? I see a light within him, a special quality that no one else has in my eyes, and Leo.

Leo has it.

Leo might always have it.

I need someone to see that same quality in me, because he fucking doesn’t. And that right there is why I could never actually love him. I have deep rooted affection, but in order to truly give a trusting love to someone, you have to believe they love you back.

I don’t think I could ever believe he did.

So I will probably tote around this knock-off, younger, more motivated version of him for the next three months while I try to convince myself I’m over him. I will probably convince myself that it’s Tristan I actually have feelings for in this situation. That none of it is really connected.

But I will know, when all of the lights are off and there is nothing to see but the engulfing and consuming darkness, that Tristan is nothing but a glorified sex doll to me.

And with that I’m gonna say goodnight.

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Exposed

Journal, Personal, Poetry, Sexuality

Invasion, fear, personal space.
Adrenalin, anxiety, closing off.

Legs tighten, breasts can’t be hidden,
hips protrude into the light.

I cannot hide. My body is on display,
like an exhibit in a museum.

People stare, people comment,and I must stay still
pretend to not be awake.