Self-Destructive Musings Interrupted by a Phone Call

I wish I was lonely without you here. It'd be easier if I needed you that way. Instead, I'm sitting on my bed, hair sweat-soaked from dancing, one heel broken off, fearing my lack of attention span.

I try to convince myself that a week is just a really long day, and that if you called, we'd find plenty to say, and that not a word would be a lie, or even a half-truth. But I know that even though I didn't mean to, from the start I've been dishonest with you.

I warned you that first night we stayed up and talked that I was dangerous, but I don't think you believed me. You turned the hour glass over, and I sprawled on the couch as the sand rained down, counting the seconds before I pushed my identity underground. I became complacent, soft, a cat begging at your feet, only wanting your affection.

I stayed in when I'd normally go out, wore long skirts and boots instead of lace miniskirts and fuck-me heels. For you, I let my lingerie gather dust in a drawer, and forgot what it meant to walk into a room and glow. Uncharacteristically, I let you be the only man in my life, became a peninsula anchored to land only through you.

But that's not who I am. I've never been good at sitting still, and now that you're gone, I'm clawing my way out of the sand, gasping for breath and remembering. I play with hearts as if they're stuffed with catnip. I am a new Delilah, clad in lace with a taste for variety. I go out dancing, glow in the dark and capture gazes with my hips, and then come home with sweat-soaked hair and one heel broken off my shoes, drunk off the power and the strobe lights. This person doesn't need you, even as she wants you. As she tugs off her shoes, she muses that it would be easier to hold on if she were lonely without you.