Apr 172017
 

While my ex-husband and I were hitting the nail in the coffin of our marriage and making a messy muck of it, we would often use the term “now or never”.

I started it, I think. I started it on the drive out to him, where I told him it was his girlfriend or me. He had to make a decision immediately as I didn’t want to waste any more time driving. Perhaps it makes sense why I issued that ultimatum, but it was still a manipulation ploy.

I also used it when I was stuck in my hometown with nowhere else to go after that long drive. I used it under the context that kids would be in school, I would get a job because I had to, and I needed to know where to settle. “Make up your mind now, you have about two weeks, and then we’re stuck in this town,” I told him desperately. It was the truth, but the truth can still manipulate. I was hoping to press him to get what I wanted.

We reconciled a few times in the Spring, if reconciling meant fucking up each other’s minds and occasionally fucking. So many tears, so much confusion. We would lash out and hurt each other just to keep some distance, come back and apologize between sobs and blame. We didn’t see each other all that frequently, and the few times were in secret.

Clearly, while I spoke the truth, it wasn’t now or never, as I kept pushing back the timeline. Over the summer, surely I could change schools, find another job. Yes, it was even more complicated, but wasn’t it worth it? We really committed over the summer, broke up with our partners and attempted to work towards us. If committed meant throwing ultimatums, mostly from him this time: give up the blog, only write fiction, delete the past lovers, move to me, give me writing assignments, work on your issues – I don’t have any; now or never.

I tried to compromise the most I was ever willing to over the summer, being so heartbroken and lost in life by then that I didn’t know who I was anymore. I wasn’t willing to give up the blog but compromised what it looked like, catered to all the other whims. After just a short time, he changed his mind when I complained that I was only one changing. Summer didn’t see us together for more than a few days without changing our minds, but it was a few days scattered once a week for the duration of it.

We had sucked the vitality of our love in our attempt to keep our relationship together; we were dry and empty. We should’ve known better, but fall saw us trying again. Now or never, I again stated, but this time he was compromising location – after all, by this point I was settled into the school year and just couldn’t do that to my family. We still worked out the terms of our reconciliation, but we were shaky.

This reconciliation lasted the longest – a whole two weeks. He procrastinated finding a job, I was helping him. Now or never, I echoed that so much, so desperate for what I felt was the last time. He visited me for a weekend, I visited him for a weekend.

I think that last weekend was truly our now or never. I was visiting my daughter, making her a priority, and plans in trying to work around her social calendar kept interfering with my ex and myself. Or perhaps our daughters’ schedule weren’t working out the way we planned – but the passion was gone, the desperation – from both of us. I think we both felt it. We were well and truly tired.

As I drove away from visiting him, he called me and stated that he didn’t think he wanted to continue. It wasn’t a new statement by any means, the difference being that I also didn’t want to continue.  We wished each other the best, felt that we would support each other if needed but space was needed far more for the time being, and went our separate ways.

A month later, my baby sister died. I called him hysterical and he seemed amazingly sympathetic, but while I was out there dealing with her body and possessions he became callous and self-centered. I couldn’t understand how he could make demands and requests of me in my grief – though to be fair at any other time I would have responded at least neutrally on what he asked of me. But it wasn’t any other time, it was a tragic heart-ripping moment.

I needed him now far more than I ever had before and realized it would never happen – not even as a friend.

Apr 132017
 

“You never hear of the bullet that hits you, it is one of the few blessings of battle.” – Burke Davis, Marine! the Life Chesty Puller

My ex-husband wrote me a list of reasons why he loved me and our life together one week before I drove out to be with him, a drive that he turned me away from him once I arrived. With texts like this, perhaps it may make sense on why I didn’t see the bullet that killed us. Hello purging, glad you are now deleted from my phone.

  • I love the way you look at me when we wake up together, that sparkle in your eyes and that smile you get, especially when you know we are about to have some wonderful morning sex.
  • I love the way you are willing to jump into anything.
  • I like it when you take control, it makes me go crazy and turns me on so much like nothing else.
  • I love how giddy you get when we are going or doing something new!
  • I also like how you try to involve everybody and don’t let people feel left out.
  • I love how we are each others biggest fans and supporters.
  • I love how we drive and encourage each other to be the best that we can, even when it sucks to do so.
  • I love how we can just talk forever and not stop.
  • I can not wait to finally really go RV shopping with you!
  • I love you too, soulmate. Copilot to the open roads.
  • Our home will have a hide away library/romper room we will spend hours in…..
  • We will be those people that will have a map of the United States and get stickers to fill in the entire thing!
  • I am going to have my mini pitbull and you will have your Pom and we will happily fit in the home and RV
  • We are going to be busy people when we retire. There is so much traveling we need to do, not just in the RV but all I’ve r the world. We have talked so much about our worldly travels we will have and I can not wait to begin them. I mean I get to be stuck on a plane with you for over 8 hours that is a great start!
  • Another thing I love about you and I, we get each other what we want.
  • When we retire and build our own house, I will put in a beautiful garden and maybe a green house, so we can have wonderful flower year round.
  • I can’t wait to start exploring this new area with you!

Apr 052017
 

The conversations pieces were from notes (in bold) that I posted in this blog February 2nd, 2016 and I show I last modified this post in May of 2016. Some of them blurred as to exactly when they occurred as I truly was an emotional wreck on the drive and for a few weeks after he asked for the divorce. I believe the May edits were probably more of spelling edits and of course my introduction (before the bold) was just written).

My letter D for this year was almost my letter D for last year with the post Driving, but I wasn’t to that part of the story yet, so I modified it to be P for Pressure:

“I drove across the country, literally from one coast to the other, with my family and what belongings I could take. I only stopped to sleep, get gas, and food. I was exhausted but pushed on, rushing because I was finally going to moving in with my husband and I had job interviews to make.

Every time he talked to me, he mentioned how hard it was for him to know that soon he wouldn’t see his girlfriend all the time, how great his girlfriend was, how soon I would meet her, asking how soon I would allow them to see each other all the time again. He told me the night before I was to arrive that she sent me a message asking when I would meet her so that I would be fine with them.

Five hours before I arrived, 42 hours later on the road, he told me that some kink events I wanted to go to I couldn’t, because I was a bad person, because he went to those things with her and it just wasn’t right that we would be going instead of him with her.

I told him, exhausted and really tired of every mile closer to him getting more negative about my arrival because of what it meant to their relationship, that I didn’t want him to have a relationship with her anymore….”

I shouldn’t have pushed for him to end their relationship, perhaps I was beyond tired and emotional from the trip. What I didn’t share (but of course wrote down because I write down every damn thing it seems) is some of the conversations I was having with him (not her, she reached out too, a reason why I blocked her on Fetlife later).

“Shy timid virgin foreplay” were words he used to describe how she was so very different from me, some qualities that he really appreciated. He felt that he could mold her, teach her, something I knew he always found appealing and why he used to explain his surprise at liking “someone like me” when we first started dating – he used to look down upon and judge women who were very experiences sexually. He found the concept of virgins or inexperienced women appealing. I was trying to be happy for him at this point in the car drive still, and he only ever wanted to talk about her, kept diverted the conversation I was trying to steer of plans of seeing each other again and our future back to her. I had probably prompted the conversation to thing that he had experienced that perhaps I could do as well, and he dismissed my ability to do so with this type of talk.
“So tight,” a comparison I didn’t want to hear (if it was even a comparison or just a description) and one that pinged so many of my insecurities that I winced at even through the phone as if I’d been hit. I have no idea why he felt the urge to explain her in this towards the end a long day of my driving closer to him. It led to keeping me awake that night in a hotel room, trying to talk myself away from so many fears.

Doing new things,” and all the sudden, the closer I got to him on the drive, the more he shared about wanting to experience new things with her, and what they had already done that was new to him; including “cutting with my knife,” and  “buying of toys.” I was incredibly upset over the knife that I viewed so symbolically as ours, as leading us towards kink, being used on another woman. He had other knives, but he used ours. I tried to convince myself that I had no right to get upset because I had never vocalized how I viewed the knife as just ours, never thought to. It wasn’t his fault – he probably just naturally gravitated towards that knife for use on another because that what he knew from us.

Day two on the road and his grumpy tone of: “When will I see her again”, how he would miss sleeping next to her, telling me to check her Fetlife “message to meet,” and respond, though I was driving, to give her reassurance – which I did and wanted to. Later in the day he described how they were both crying at the loss that my arrival would mean, “how she was already pushing for more,” though the details of what that meant were vague, though he stated that soon he would want her to live with us. He said that he didn’t want to go to events with me because what if she was there, and they had already, in the two weeks that he knew her, had already gone to several public events together and that was their thing. When I argued that, he compromised me on some events he would go to with me, but ensuring that she wouldn’t be there first.

When I mentioned that suddenly I felt like she was more important, he stated that she was “no more important than you,” and I felt done with the drive towards his, felt like I was no longer important at all, felt like a woman he knew for two weeks would always be a priority over me, the family and future, we had built together.

I felt like he no longer wanted any part of that. As I drove towards him, I made an ultimatum: I didn’t want him to see her while we settled in for a few weeks, and then when kept describing how wonderful she was and how awful I was, I further that threat and said that he had a choice of her or me.

42 hours on the road, when I could no longer turn around nor veer towards somewhere else for the night: was when he told me he wanted a divorce, no longer wanted to be with me. 5 more hours more I was in front of his door, having no where else to go, exhausted and hysterical, begging for him to forgive me and be with me.

So these were the conversations or notes in bold that occurred, that broke my heart little by little each mile I traversed.

Apr 012017
 

*For the month of April, I am going to purge my drafts of my off-and-on reconciliation attempts with my ex-husband last year. They are still painful, and will be incredibly rough drafts, as I am literally purging emotions and some bittersweet memories. I may also mix in some current stuff just to give myself a break, or to reflect where I am now.
** The following was written two weeks after he requested the divorce.

He’s rewriting history.

“I didn’t choose her over you, I chose the area, my career, being close to my family”

I guess he’s conveniently forgotten when I showed up to his doorstep with high-paying job interviews lined up ready to move in with his family for a couple of months until we could get our own place in the area.

Good thing I wrote down things (which granted is going to be bias), because he’s completely rewriting history.

He told me, as I traveled back to our home to gather our things and questioned how I was to packed everything, that I should spread my legs to get moving help. Then he criticized my slutfest and said I was disgusting.

And then he was upset that I won’t sleep with him this weekend and telling me that he’ll help if I have sex with him. It is our stuff that he is talking about, while mostly mine, I packed up anything that had meaning to him, that was sentimental, things he didn’t even ask for (because the only thing he asked for was rope making materials).

“Throw it away, I don’t want it,” he told me when I requested about pictures.

He’s throwing out the truth to deflect his own actions. I hope that I do not the same just to make myself feel better –  how easy it is to rewrite history.

***He told me that first quote repeatedly the 7 months we were on and off in reconciliation attempts. A few of those attempts I was willing to even move back up to his area and walk away from the safety (and small support) of my hometown again.  

Mar 272017
 

“Aren’t you afraid it will happen all over again?” Mr. Texas asked me as we drove back from a BDSM speed dating event. I thought it would be good for him to get out and talk to other people, perhaps find a play partner or two besides me. “Your husband got into another relationship and then left you.”

I winced, though I hoped it wasn’t obvious in the darkness of the car. “No,” I stated, though that was only slightly true. I was concerned Mr. Texas might leave me, but not because he found someone else. He might leave me because I want an open relationship and he doesn’t, or because we’re incompatible, or because I can’t be who I was when he met me, or because I tell him to get the fuck out of my life.  He may find someone else and leave me because she is more perfect for him than I am; that could happen even if we were monogamous. It could happen, and she’d be lucky to have him.

I could tie him to the bed when I’m gone and release him when I’m at home to keep an eye on him, could have sex all day long every day, could be the most fantastic lover, provide the most stimulating conversations and entertainment, drop weight or gain weight to be his ideal body, dye my hair blonde (his favorite), and still he could leave me.

But it wouldn’t happen because he met someone else more… it would happen because we aren’t that compatible in the long term scheme of things.

…Unless he goes through a midlife crisis, like my ex husband did. He’s also transitioning out of the military, like my ex husband did before he left me.

But still, it wouldn’t happen because he met someone.

So yes, I’m concerned it could happen all over again.
Wicked Wednesday

Mar 172017
 

Trapped like a once beautiful bird in a cage that since wilted. Once I viewed you so shiny, like a toy or jewel worthy of my attention, but your glittery gold has rusted and stained. In a full forest, you’re obscured. Quietude instead demanding for my fingertips to stroke and thrum the golden streaked body.

You were once Spring with sweet blossoms perfumed, once exposed naked in the heat, Fall with the vibrancy of a last desperate attempt at life, and now are barren of gifted illusions and fool’s paradise; fruitless. You leave me cold. Indifferent.

What happened to you?

Passionless.

Surely it wasn’t I, an exception of enchantment passing seasons of beauty? Soft sustenance and opalescence that we procreated?

You don’t thirst for permanence that is almost forgotten, buried deeply, by me, do you?

How sad, tragic, pathetic, worthless is that? How could you hang just to drop from the weight?

You should not be depleted as such. Empty. You seem to have gone down in flames whereas the heat and ashes have absolved me like a phoenix flying the coop. You were a torch, a spark, glowing vibrant with life now ebbed, dull, chilled, monotonous.

Where are you now?

I care not to search; I lost you and there is nothing to lead me back.

Feb 052017
 

Febraury Photofest

Wicked Wednesday

 

 

 

 

“I should just quit the scene now,” I told my friends at a dungeon as we were sitting around socializing. I was on a couch with a couple that I’m quite close to, the man was in the middle and the woman on the other side of him. She was laying across his chest so I could rub her arm, and my legs were draped across his lap so she could rub my legs. We aren’t sexual, just close.

A man had approached and began a conversation towards negotiating a scene with me. I mentioned that I’m a wimp with impact and pain. He had stated that he had seen me scene several times prior to approaching me.

It brought up the topic of scenes and what each of the four of us had experienced – mine far tamer in so many respects.

I mentioned how I see so many bottoms able to be thoroughly beat, displaying marks that I am quite envious of. “But I’m a wimp. I should just quit the scene now,” I halfheartedly joked.

Anyone who has played with me, with the exception of Mr. Texas because he was new to any kink, has heard something similar from me.

I’ve heard from tops pretty equally now on their views of lightweight versus heavy hitter views of bottoms, which leaves me feeling just as insecure that I will be seen as a lesser than bottom. Though I’ve also had two separate tops (The Wanderer, and the man who co-topped me) articulately discuss with me how that isn’t the case, especially from their perspective of the what’s-in-it-for-them. These men discuss how comparative doesn’t even come into play, that they play because of the individual, and stress beautifully that the reactions of the bottom (me) are what do it for them as a top. I’m very reactionary, and they love to play with me because of my reactions. If they are getting a reaction playing softer, then it’s less work for them even, and they are perfectly content.

My ex husband, after his girlfriend and while we were reconciling, told me while we were at a GRUE together that he missed playing with his ex girlfriend because he wanted to play harder and couldn’t – because I couldn’t handle it. He had watched a scene of two people playing roughly on the floor. He knew this was an insecurity of mine and approached it as almost a reason to not be with me (at least that’s how I felt). He especially liked how he could draw back and backhand her in the face without holding back.

Her kink is not my kink, and that’s okay.

Even wanting him back as much as I did, that was not an activity I was going to engage in. I could go into the whys like just not interested and I can’t bruise on my face due to my career; but it truly is as simple as that is not something that I am even remotely curious about experiencing. I’m not at all close, with the exception of that one horrible weekend, to giving into something just to be/play with someone else.

In conversing with the couple and how hard they play, the top stated that it was nice having different bottoms to get what he wants, because he loves to the play with the individual, but every so often he feels the urge to go hard and it’s nice to have someone who can provide that.

That was not going to be the case with my ex husband, as playing with others was a hard limit during our reconciliation.

Truly, though, I am okay with a multitude of play partners because each individual will bring a new experience and wealth of knowledge or reactions.

So, no, I’m not really going to quit the scene, though I feel anxious when being approached by someone new, and sometimes even playing with a prior partner the insecurities will creep up. But I find that I will always state in advance that I am a wimp and can’t handle much.

I can only hope that the person engaging in play with me gets something out of it as well.

Oct 302016
 

So, this week has been very anal intensive with my writings. The reason is because last week I went over to Mr. Texas’ house (yes, we’re back together) and we had drinks and hot tub time. We had already discussed no sex, because I tore from the prior weekend’s sexfest and needed to heal up for a few days.

“No penetration,” he said, shaking my hand but negotiating for making out.

I didn’t want to make out. Our making out always ended in sex. But I shook hands on our tentative deal. And we made out in amidst the chilly fall air and heat of the water. His finger went to roam around my anus, and when he attempted to insert a bit, I commented that we needed lube.

“So let’s get lube then,” he stated, holding out a hand to help me out of the hot tub.

I should’ve known the bed is not a good place to go when avoiding sex.

In bed, he used a generous amount of lube and fingered me to an anal orgasm – a rarity and one that I was shocked that I experienced. As he nibbled on my neck, he whispered that it was too bad that we decided we didn’t want to try anal sex, because it was the perfect opportunity to try it.

He had a point; I had just orgasmed anally from fingering, I wondered if I could from sex. I felt terrified, but tried to sort out the emotion and felt that maybe it was because the one and only time before that was so horrible.

Shouldn’t I get over that experience?

“Yes, we should, but it requires a lot of lube.”

“We should what?”

“Try it.”

“What is it?” The clarification of consent was crucial to him, it seemed, after my sharing of the last experience.

“Anal sex.”

The problem with a man who just began inserting a finger, and wasn’t educated on it, was he immediately pushed himself in after applying a lot of lube (or at least it felt that way).

I jumped up and away from him, complaining of how badly it hurt.

He apologized profusely, felt terrible about hurting me. He said he was barely in, and I needed to relax.

I laid back down on my stomach and was willing to give it another try.

…And he moved slowly the second go round, telling me to breathe and relax.

…And it hurt, but it may have been from the first attempt.

…And I should have worked up to sex, instead of barely getting any anal stimulation and going from a finger thinking I could do more.

…And I was getting over my anal issue, dammit, so I breathed and willed myself to relax and he stroked in and out until it was just a dull uncomfortable.*

He slid out too far by mistake, and in looking down, saw a mess, so we stopped there.

Not the most successful, but for me, it was an uphill mental battle far more than anything physical.

I don’t know if I’ll try anal sex again, but I’m hoping to no longer feel sick to my stomach terrified of it.

And I cried, goodness how I cried after we were done.

…I didn’t want him to view me as disgusting (he had stated when we first started dating that he viewed anal sex as disgusting) and I was messy. Would he leave me (and was that a remnant feeling that my ex left me with)? What if he didn’t like the experience and I forever hurt his chances of liking it because I was a wimp with how badly it hurt?

…And I cried because I was overcoming the last time; the memory flooded back in great waves and threatened to drown me in the panic.

Mr. Texas pulled me into a shower where he held me for a long time before washing us up, before holding me again, before pulling us out and drying us off. He pulled me into bed and held me until I was strong enough to hold my composure.

He thanked me for allowing us both to experience anal sex for the first time together.

And I was grateful he put that spin on it (even knowing the experience I was overcoming), because he was right, it was the first time.

Because I felt like I wanted to experience anal sex, and that made all the difference.

 

*It may have felt good had not the first slide-in hurt so badly; a fact that I am pondering a lot.

Jun 052016
 

*Maybe this needs a trigger warning? It certainly triggers me. This is NOT the consensual non consent scene; this was something I told him I was NOT doing the morning of. 

“Anal?” asked mid orgasm with a thumb in my ass, already in that high orgasm head space.

Still, I answered, “no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Just the tip?”

“No.”

“Just try it.”

“No.”

“I’ll stop if you say.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’ll be slow and easy. You’re ready. Besides which, when will you ever do this again?”

“I don’t know. Never.”

“So…?”

“Maybe.”

He grabbed a condom , set it to the side, proceeded to have sex with me. After an orgasm, he put on the condom but it was just to continue having sex with me. Another orgasm.

He positioned me to the side, curled my legs up, positioned his tip at my back hole, and with a lot of lube slowly eased in.

“No, stop, it hurts.” I dug my nails into his chest.

“Shh, relax, it’s fine. I’ll stop here,” he grabbed my hair and yanked hard, diverting the pain to my scalp and eased in a bit more. Both hurt. He grabbed a vibrator and pushed it in my vagina, leaving less space in side of me but some pleasure. And pain. He eased in a bit more. “Relax,” he said in a soothing voice at my ear, his hand going around my throat, his fingertips pressing in.

“No,” I protested before the world faded. When I came to consciousness, he was completely inside of me, going a bit faster and harder. The vibrator didn’t override the large object moving painfully inside of me. After awhile, he pulls out, takes off the condom, then has PIV sex, coming immediately.

*

I cried, great heaving sobs, and he held me. “I’m proud of you, you did good,” he whispered in my ear.

I curled into his chest, seeking comfort from one who hurt me. I trusted him even though he pushed for anal sex and was about to leave me. I trusted him even though he told me that the weekend had to be a secret because he was now monogamous with his girlfriend and I – his wife – was now the other woman.

“I knew this would be hard for you.” He murmured into my tears.

Then why would he do it and leave? I consented but it was from a pathetic desperation to keep him that consented to something I was uncomfortable with and had zero desire to do.

I felt violated but I violated myself. I felt disgusting –  not the in the act but in the desperation. I trusted a man who would walk away. I allowed something uniquely special to a man who didn’t value my worth.

I cried so hard I slept and when I woke up, I cried again.

He had been inside of me in every way possible and would be gone in hours.

Jun 052016
 

2My husband wrapped the rope around my legs, practiced a few times to make sure the tension was good and not too tight. He fingered me to a few orgasms, those rough pummeling fingertips knowing exactly how to curl and almost making me squirt.

He used the wartenburg wheel around the exposed skin between the ropes as he positioned himself between my thighs, and then he slowly cut one sliver with Ka-bar knife closest to the knee on the left side, and as my sound began to change to concern and distress, he entered me. He slowly cut another sliver along the middle of the same thigh, slid deeper, cut another sliver of exposed skin on my thigh closest to my hip, all on the left side. He placed the knife down, smacked on the cuts, pulled them apart a bit with a hand that seemed to engulf my stinging thigh as his cock moved in and out of me.

He moved his fingers, further parting the skin to reveal the cut deeper, watched closely, and then moved to the other side.

My right thigh was cut between the ropes, in a space above the knee, then another even deeper, even slower. He positioned me to the side and roughly fucked me, brought me to an orgasm, whispering “one more” as he rotated me again onto my back and slowly sliced through my skin even deeper than before, parting the cut with his two hands. It felt as though his hands were tearing the cut further apart.

He gripped my bloody thighs tightly as he fucked me, the bloody palms occasionally touching and smearing red on other parts of me.

How did I feel about all of this? Nervous about cutting, and anxious. But he knew a pace that I could handle to go from one to the next activity. Still, the minute the knife was brought to skin to cut, I became oddly detached. It stung, it hurt, I winced, I wanted to cry to stop – but I did nothing. I allowed one carving after another against my porcelain skin bound tight in his rope. I only felt pleasure once he began cutting as he roughly fucked me on my side, but the knife was down for that.

I looked at the marks and hoped they weren’t permanent – after all, he had already left me.

He used the knife that was symbolic to us both of our beginnings into kink – it was the one I used on our second date where I straddled him in the car and put it against his throat. It was the one that had caressed and scratched at our fevered flesh through our years of sex.

It was the one that he had sharpened for another, for the woman he left me for, the first woman he cut intentionally, the steel smeared with her blood first on our knife, my bloody seconds.

When we were done, I commented how the rope was bloodied. “I know, I should’ve taken it off of you,” he said in a casual manner.

“Don’t forget separate the bloody rope. I’m definitely fluid bonded to it,” I asserted as he grabbed for it.

He placed it all in a bag, mixing it with his other rope. “I don’t even know which rope is which. I’m just going to stick this in a closet and forget about it for six months. Besides, I have others,” nonchalantly.

I knew him, I knew his lazy nature, and that the rope would be touching her – now she would get bloodied seconds, and possibly other women. There was no way he would hang that much rope for six months – no way he would get out his other rope he hoped to sell and condition and do up the ends to use it. No, that rope would touch others.

What was my responsibility to her? Did I warn her? But he told me that I wasn’t to say a word to her, that I was the other woman in this until he decided if he wanted to continue our marriage, and I wanted our marriage, I wanted him, and she may not believe me anyhow. Why would she trust his wife over him?

“Besides which,” he continued with the same careless tone,”it’s your blood. I know where you’ve been. It’s not some stranger’s.”

He wanted me to wait, hidden away and waiting to be used, like that rope that soaked in my blood without a tell-tale sign unless closely inspected, while he had a woman he claimed wouldn’t know or think any better.

She would possibly be wrapped around that rope, around a horrible deceit.

…and I felt so guilty I was a part of it.

*Written three weeks after he left me for his girlfriend. 

**This was written months ago. I still bear the scars of the knife, you can see it when I wear shorts, skirts, or a bathing suit. It reminds me of my desperation, of how pathetic I was, how I was the other woman. I cannot view these scars positively and they are so prominent so I can’t ignore them either.