Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the category “Relationships”

You’re Not Worthy

You’re amazing and intelligent and have a wonderful sense of humor and you’re beautiful

but I only want to. . .

fuck you behind my wife’s back

sext with you and get you to send me dirty pictures to get off to

lie to you about everything that counts

continually crush your hopes and dreams until you have none left

control you with my words and fists to break your spirit

tell you I love you but never show you

say I’m dedicated to you, but fuck other women every chance I get

disrespect you

 

 

Semantics

The words will never come

when you want them,

and rarely show up when you need them.

The words were you.

You were never there.

While at the same time,

words were all you were.

Such a way with words you had.

It’s always the words that draw me in,

and do me in.

And it’s always the words that fail me.

And in sweet irony, it’s the words that save me.

Every damn time.

Memory Trace

I’m certain that neither one of us

know the other

and what I did know of you

I have most likely forgotten

I can’t recall the way you kissed

or what your hands felt like upon my skin

or whether I asked you to dance

or you asked me

it was so long ago

25 years give or take

and now we are both

nearly totally different people

after scars have formed on our hearts

so what are we to do

do we go our separate ways

once again

or do we try to recall what

what brought us together in the first place

 

 

 

The Hex that is You

smoke

 

you’re all just smoke and mirrors

and I choke in your presence

fearing you’re

a mere reflection of the worst parts of me

and that

maybe

I’ve conjured you into being

like some sort of voodoo priestess

I have drawn you to me

by being broken and bent

and you

seeing all the worst in me

know what I will do for love

or that thing

you disguise as love

dress it up

teach it to speak more better

(the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain)

take it out on parade

regardless

it never fails to be what it is

a sick, twisted display of your narcissism

 

Split Lips

the salt from my tears stings the cut on my lip

I push my tongue against it to feel the sting again

drag my teeth across it

taste the coppery tang from the blood

my mouth waters and I turn my head and spit

I wonder what brought me to this point in my life

it’s not the first time

but it’s definitely the last time

you’ll lay your hands on me motherfucker

so I commit it to memory

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Honeymoon Phase

Don’t do it, I want to tell her.  Don’t go back to him.

But it’s too late.  She’s with him again, and she’s got all the same old excuses for being with him.

I’m keeping it casual.

He’s different now, not like he was before.

So you forgot, I guess.

You forgot all the nasty things he called you.

You forgot how he made you feel like a piece of shit by all the things he said, and all the things he did.

You forgot all the insecurity and the tears and the feelings of insanity.

You forgot how he didn’t put you first.  Hell, he didn’t even put you second.

You forgot how your son said he was scared of him. How your son knew that this guy didn’t make you happy.

But you went back anyway.

I suppose you went back for all the same reasons all of us go back–because you can’t get those old tapes to stop playing in your head, you can’t get past the fear of being alone, you can’t put yourself first, let alone your son.

I want to tell you you’ll regret it.  I want to scream “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE GO BACK TO THAT PIECE OF SHIT AND CHOOSE HIM OVER YOUR KID!”.

But I don’t.  I stay quiet.  There’s nothing I can do even though I can see how this all will play out, and I don’t even need a crystal ball.  You will have to learn on your own, because it’s something which can’t be taught.

I had to be my own teacher, but I eventually learned.

I have been you.

And you are now me.

 

No Escape

The knowledge of it was too much

the pain and the shame it carried with it was too much

and it was like you didn’t even care

you didn’t care because you were too much too

it was all more than I wanted to deal with

drunk

fed up

I drained the last drink from the beer bottle

and I smashed it against the sink

you did nothing

as I stood there and began cutting

with that sharp piece of brown glass

I didn’t so much want an end

to my life

as I did to the knowledge

and the pain and the shame

cut

slice the skin and make me feel

some other type of pain

the physical more bearable than the emotional

the blood ran down my hand before you noticed

there was no comfort to be found in you

since I only wanted release from you too

I will never escape what you did

no matter how much I slice off

 

The Fallout of Hope

heart

 

“It’s because you’re an optimist.”

What the fuck did he just say to me??

He was kidding.  He had to be kidding.

Me?  An optimist? Especially when it comes to me thinking about finding love??

My brain didn’t want to even think about the word!

My mouth didn’t want to form the “O” or purse my lips for the “P” of the first syllable.

I felt dirty.  Like he’d insulted me and called me the “C word”.

How dare he!

I pride myself on being a pessimistic realist–especially when it comes to that particular topic.

Was I losing my snark?  Was I allowing something which seemed to say “optimist” to peek through my rough exterior?

Is there some teeny tiny kernel of optimism which lives somewhere deep down inside my black heart which he caught a tiny glimpse of?

Or, worse yet, am I lying to myself?

Is there something within me that believes it’s possible for me to find love again, that there might be someone out there who will love me like I need to be loved?

I’d like to think not, but maybe he sees something within me I can’t.  Maybe he sees some sort of potential in me that I refuse to because it makes my life easier.

For me, realism is so much easier than optimism, and pessimism kicks both their asses, because it means I don’t have to manufacture “hope” for love, because even if it were to happen, it would probably just go to shit anyway.

I think I started being a realist about love when, while carrying my son, his father left me for one of my best friends.

I became a pessimist when every man since then cheated on me with other women.

I doubt romantic love exists anymore, and so far, no man has shown up to disprove my theory.

Maybe, some day a great guy will come along, but I’m not holding my breath.

Until then, I will live in my cynical world, because it protects my heart from the fallout of hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Open Books

book

 

the book lies open in your lap

set aside

as I bend over you

to rub my nose, my lips

against the stubble on your cheek

needing to feel you physically

and express my love for all that you are

how many times each day

do I think in my head

“god I love this man”

which is as it should be

all of you is what anchors me

and heals me from all that has come before

 

 

Life Goes On

You’re engaged, and my stomach didn’t drop to my knees when I found out.

I experienced a momentary twinge of jealousy that it wasn’t me, then I remembered you asking me to send you dirty videos last June, shortly after you and she had done the “grown-up” thing and announced your relationship on Facebook, and the jealousy flew out the window to be replaced with pity for her.

 

Pity, because you’ll do the same thing to her that you did to me, and all of the other women who came before us. Maybe, you’re already doing it to her.

Soon enough she won’t have all the strokes your ego needs.  Her arm will be tired from patting you on the back all the time.  Her throat will be sore from constantly having to tell you what a great guy you are.

So then you’ll go in search of someone else to fill you up because you’ve never learned to do it for yourself.

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