Eight Months

I super miss having sex with my ex, guys. 

This is new. I didn’t feel anything for a while except sad. But now, I don’t know, my cat sat on my lap this morning for just a little too long? and it reminded me that someone used to touch that area of my body for extended periods of time? and then, it was all over. I wanted to call him. 

Except that I can’t, because the new girl he is seeing is here right now. Like, in town, right now. I know. It’s gross. 

I’m having these incredible fantasies of just like bursting into his apartment and forcing my presence upon both of them. 

That’s the end of the plan, there’s nothing else to it really. Just forcing them to open the door and look at me and deal with the reality of me and my horrible grotesque bleeding heart. That’s right, bitches! I’m still here!! I’m here to ruin allll your fun with my deep terrible authentic PAIN. Hopefully i would do this while in lingerie and actively pole-dancing at the time. Like, someone would go before me and secretly install some kind of pole? because come on! I can pole dance! Probably didn’t know that, huh, New Girlfriend from Burning Man? Thought you guys would get rid of me that easy, huh? Well THINK AGAIN, NGBM! (inverted flip!) - whaaaacha! Think again!!! 

I wish she didn’t have quite so many tattoos. Somehow it feels more insulting to be replaced by a girl with ample tattoos, like she just had to draw all over her body because she’s just that deserving of embellishment. She’s just that Burning Man.  

Anyway, today was the tenth day that I’ve prayed to “release” him. Yeah. And against all odds, that was working pretty okay until suddenly, this morning, I remembered that I have a vagina. And now…. I’m back here again; wishing that there was some justification I could find to call him. Anything. Anything. Bueller. 

But there’s not. There really isn’t. And I know I’m gonna make it. I know I’m not gonna call. Because every day I think about doing it and then I don’t. I just keep thinking about doing it. And then I don’t. One day after another day. For 34 days.

And I looked at a photo of us with kindness today, so I know things are changing.  

The hardest part is knowing that this girl will never know me. That I won’t show up naked and pole-dancing in front of her apartment, that I won’t call.

She won’t wonder if I have tattoos. Or see me and be disappointed that I’m pretty. She won’t hear about the things we did together, or wonder if I had better sex with him than she does. I won’t scrawl I was here I was here I was here all over his sidewalk or draw chalk outlines of our bodies on his sheets. I won’t seal off his rooftop with crime-tape, or invite his friends to a party to send stories back about how well I’m doing. My name won’t pop up on his caller ID. I’ll leave them alone.

My broken-heart doesn’t give me prerogative, even if it should. So she won’t know me. I’m just gone. 

I think that growing up is beautiful, and just so hard. Knowing what the right thing is, and knowing you’re strong enough to execute it is lonelier than acting out ever was. I wish I could talk to her, or maybe hit her in the face. I wish I didn’t hate her. I wish she didn’t have so many tattoos. I just wish she was gone.

But that’s not up to me, even though I can pole-dance.

Which is something I get. 

So will someone talk to my vagina about this?