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