First chink in the armor.
Some of the bravado is just that. The recent boy in my bed has yet to call. Maybe it wasn’t good, maybe he didn’t feel in the casual moment what he needed. Maybe the only way I can connect is naked; represent something to someone who'll never fully have me. Maybe that makes me sad. Maybe deep down I don't care. Make my own bed, indeed, and wash the sheets the next morning.
For all the connection, there's little to none, really.
There's something to calling your own shots, but it hurts when they misfire. Surprised, really, at the relatively short amount of time I went before feeling a little like a crumpled wrapper on the night stand. Not unexpected, but certainly not welcome. It was not one thing, it just all came down in one day. Life is funny that way.
Doesn’t mean I’ll stop. I probably won’t even do much different. It’s only in the briefest of moments that I envy the emotional “thing” (hand to God, best I can produce for lack of a better word) others have rather than embrace and be fully giddy with how I roll. I have lust where others have love. I don’t think I can pull that off anyway.
There’s a 45% percent chance this will never make the blog, blows the cool cover too much. Putting it out there and getting back nothing more than exactly what was asked for, fair enough. I consciously chose to dedicate the experience to who I am right now; this is me in this moment, crying as I type, real tears, the ones I usually only let out in the shower to run down the drain.
Or maybe I just needed to cry tonight. Didn't know I had it in me.
Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett.