Standing ovation.

Poke.
trickle trickle go my thoughts.
They twist and turn out of my pores and collect speed as they cascade downward, only slowing near the curves on my voluptuous body.
down and down they go.
flowing, thriving, screaming.
leaving.

I see them crawl on the tops of my newly painted toes, hesitant to leave their creator.
I close my eyes, knowing that when I open these tired lids they will be gone.

I can never keep my thoughts inside me these days.
Im too fried.
too overwhelmed.
too exhausted.
I am completely spent and used up.

It’s dark in this room. Dark in this house.
Dark all over.
I’ve been surprised at how much silence talks lately.
I mean seriously, I try to ask politely if I can be alone for a bit, but it wont leave me.

Am I missing something?
did the punch line already come?
Why is it that I am the only one not laughing?

Why is it that I am the only one who is?

You have literally pulled my tears right out of their sockets.
Was this your plan?
Did you write out the script before or after we met?
Did you cast me as the lead role in your mind first or in your story?
Did you ever get too caught up in the plot?
Too involved?
Because now that hindsight has entered my life, I’m thinking you could have done a better job.
You could have made my words more poetic, you would have made your lies more intriguing.
You could have.
you could have.
you
could
have
had
me.

It’s a shame you write with black ink because how easy would it have been to just erase me.
To cut me out.
Just press delete.
Backspace this shut up.
But who am I kidding, you’re no keyboard, nothing can penetrate you, force you to say something you don’t mean or make you write something you don’t feel.
but then again, do you feel?

Are you even real?
Did this really happen?

From this day forward, I will no longer think of you in complete sentences.
Just words and phrases and overused fragments that are only written to be revised.

I will revise this.
Edit.
Edit.
Edit.

Edit you out.

I hope my laugh resounds in the furthest depths of your ear drums.
Let my eyes burn a passionate hole in your harsh and deceiving pupils so that you may never see my smile again.

Your voice won’t take you very far if your feet cant back you up.
Be careful.
Be wise.
Be on the lookout for karma, because it most certainly is headed your way.

Just because you have a dick doesn’t make you a man.
You’re just a little boy that shoved himself inside a fragile hole without an invitation.

I was blindsided.
Though you wanted to make a great film, I am no Saundra Bullock.
No leading lady.
I have no witty remarks to give or marc jacob heels to walk in.
Just because you can write, doesn’t mean you have the capability to create a momentous sports movie.
you aren’t one of the greats.
No Spielberg.
No Fitzgerald.

Im not one to be played, but oh how I was.
I was too absorbed in the huddle to realize I was the person holding the ball.
The person who is now laying on the floor.
The person who was hit.
and all I hear is your smiling voice saying "oooh, what a great sack".
I have been sacked.
Taken off the field on an uncomfortable stretcher.
Unable to move.
Finding it difficult to take breaths at my own pace.

Why didn’t I see this coming?
you have spewed yourself all over me and then tell me im not clean enough.
But im tired of cleaning up your dirty footprints, tired of brushing off your handprints that have absorbed inside my entire body.

Im out of paper towels.
Out of rags.
you have used up everything I have to offer, everything I had to give.

I hold this beer up high as I say a cheer’s to these empty, lifeless walls.
Here’s to hindsight.
Here’s to you.
Here’s to me.
Here’s to my blindside.