Written on the subway, either drunk or hungover.
There’s something empowering about leaving you there in your naked glory. I won’t deny that. Three men stretched out in the livingroom like sleeping lions can lead a girl to think she’s infallible.
I don’t remember what happened in your boyhood bed last night, but I can assure you, whatever it was cannot outweigh the feeling of obscene self-loathing that came over me as I awoke and realized where I was and the state I was in.
Lying there, knowing it had so fundamentally changed in character since I’d seen it last—the simple awareness of her story and all that had transpired—made me hate you, in a way. More, it made me hate myself that I could still end up there.
I felt like every kind of hypocrite imaginable and just needed to be gone, GONE. Back into the self-isolation I deserve and which is better suited to my all-too-apparent extreme weakness.
