When he posts those kind of pictures –yes those ones— the kind you asked him not to, he is the person you were afraid he could be.
When he tells you to forget him and find someone new, only to punish you for weeks and weeks and months and months when you try to follow his advice, to relieve yourself of the heartache and ashes and rubble he has left behind, he is the person you hoped he was not.
When you are suffering and cannot leave your bed, researching lethal dosages of household medication, and he will not come — when you put down your best friend’s dog and are choking on your tears and you beg for him, but he refuses, he is not the person you loved.
When you plead for him to call you for some reason – any reason- except to feel your lips wrapped around his dick, and he resents you, gaslights you, he is poison.
He is not who you believe he might be.
He is not who you’re sure he could be.
There is nothing to read between the lines of, “Are we ever going to get another guy?” and days of silence.
He is not your fantasy.
He is only what he does.
One thought on “Note to self.”
“He is not your fantasy.
He is only what he does.”
I love that line.