Breadcrumb #208


He told my friend I needed a clipboard and a couch.
She told me
embarrassed, reticent.
I made a show of brushing it off, but I felt my insides tighten around the memory of a quiescent past

So familiar,
that confirmation bias,
that self-fulfilling prophecy. 
It’s all consuming, intoxicating, validating.  
Am I giving in because It’s comforting? Because It’s scratching some itch I’ve learned to ignore?
Or is it my sick need to people please?  My unconscious, spot-on aptitude to conform to whatever it is that people (men) want,
to be his damsel in distress,
his punching bag
his inflater of ego.   

But I know this game.

I made a conscious decision to not sleep with anyone that night. 
Not with that bartender who lives down the street.
Not with him.
I sat in my computer chair
and ate 7-eleven macaroni and cheese in my underwear.
I filled a different hole.

That means I’m not crazy, right

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