I sabotage myself.  I’m attracted to self-torture like a moth to a flame that he lit himself.

Fire # 1

Overanxious and impatient. Weekend trip? In a couple weeks. Just us? It’ll be fun. Romantic. Bed and Breakfast. Wineries. Hole in the wall restaurants. Come on. It’ll be fun.

It would’ve been cheesy anyway.

Fire # 2

Drunk. And Tx…Te…TT… T_E_X_T_I_N_G….

“DrNk and hoRNy “

“Well good luck trying to get laid. I’m going to bed, like a responsible law student.”

“come oN, Dnt make me dRunk dail you”

……

Drunk. And. D_A…D_I_L…D_I_A_L_I_N_G.

“Congrashulashiooons! Thiss is yer firsst drunk dial from me! YAY! Are yousssleepin;?”

“I hope to very soon.”

“WHYYYY? You know i drive riight passtyer exit on my way home! Wanna have a little fun?”

“I have a big day tomorrow. I’m going to sleep. Wait, drive? You’re not really going to drive home like that are you?”

“Oh pleeease, I’m not thhaaat drunk. I wasjis kidding!”

“Don’t be dumb.”

“I’m not! I have to go.”

………

Fire #3

I have his password. It’s the only way I can find out what he’s doing now. What he’s been doing since… well, since the spring.

Login.

Inbox.

Heart drops. Heart stops. Stomach flips. Spine shivers. Am I breathing?

I shouldn’t be reading this, I shouldn’t be reading this, I shouldn’t be reading this…

Really? He’s moved on… he really said that to her? He used to say that to me…

That was

Our Thing.

I shouldn’t be reading this, I shouldn’t be reading this. I. shouldn’t.

But I did. And as much as I like to pretend it doesn’t.

It hurts.

One day. Three Fires. Why do I do this.

I want to be as mature as people think I am. I want this new fresh start to be a good one. I want to develop good habits. I don’t want to manipulate, and lie, and play games… only to be left with nothing but a password and regret.

Growing hurts.

No lust. No excitement. No passion.

Just anger.

At everything. And I have no clue why.

Neither of them have done anything wrong. He still loves me and the other still wants me.

But I feel this swelling rage,

I find myself wishing I could fall for the other. Closing my eyes and forcing my mind to picture us really together. But it arouses nothing in me. That little voice of pragmatism speaks up – he is too immature, not driven enough, you’d complain about him just as much.

But oh can he make me laugh.

I tell him piece of meat, but I don’t even want him in that way. I’m addicted to his entertainment value, not his body. He’s attractive and he makes me feel wanted, but aside from that – it’s the laughter I find myself craving when I think of him.

Laughter is the only thing that replaces that quiet bubbling anger these last couple weeks.

But why. What is there to be angry about.

My jaw is sore at night from grinding my teeth all day.

But I don’t know why.

It scares me. Where is this coming from, how long is it staying, why, where is it going?

I want to scream at someone. I want to sob and cry. I want to let all my excess anger devour someone.

I just wish there was some other feeling there. Some kind of lust that I could make disappear so easily.

But I’m alone with nothing but this festering boil.

Safety nets.

Scabbed over scrapes on knobby knees.

Midnight munchies.

Illegal substances.

Favorite old pair of sneakers.

High calorie comfort food.

Not getting enough attention, feeling self-conscious, feel like being bad, feel like playing with people.

Only when it’s dark out. Only when it’s time for aching parts to find their counterparts. Only when he’s not here to share my bed.

Only when we’re exes.