fuck with me, please

You think you're the first to mess with my head. You think it's new and enticing to play with my heart, to toy with my emotions.

It's not new. Been happening for years.

Slow undressing, tender touching, long kisses along bare skin. Long gazes, gentle moans, deep sighs and excited shivers.

I'll call you.

No, you won't.

You were fun, but I've met someone else.

While we were dating?

I'm not good enough for you.

I'm not good enough for you?

You, right there, were just one of the latest in that long line.

Many moons before teeth marks left their bruise on my shoulder and large hands massaged their way up my skirt were hands that caressed my ass, kisses from two men at once, and passed out nights on living room floors.

Memories of a time before. Of all the times I was searching for something, that connection with another. Of all the times I let myself be used by someone else in hopes of a return of affection. Of a time I let passion and desire allow me to wrap my legs around a man who removed his ring for one night.

The tiny tears in my heart muscle for over two decades slowly started to repair on their own, when I stood up for myself and walked away. When I met someone who truly mattered. Who treats me like I truly matter. Three years in, a good thing going. Now his hands are the only ones going up my skirt.