Never Committed

Smoke is pouring out of my lover’s mouth,

And he’s growling that he wants me to come back to his house.

Alcohol wets my lips as I shift in my seat,

I consider the offer for as long as I please.

Should I give him another night of pleasure, or another of pain?

If I don’t go this time then he’ll just ask again.

With the holidays around the corner and no partner to call his own,

I’m betting he wants to show me off to his family back home,

Present me as a false reality so they stop asking questions and leave him alone.

 

I tell him that I can’t go this time.

Another puff from the cigar, a gentle whine, a faked cry;

“Come with me and I promise I’ll make you scream,”

But we both know that sleeping with me will bring him no more relief.

No more than the tar he keeps in a secret room for his dark days;

No more than the girls that he has in a separate phone that are on call.

I know all about the hidden drugs and all the ways he tries to fall.

Death won’t come to him in a timely fashion, I suppose.

So he’ll just commit any sin to put himself on death row.

 

“Maybe we’ll start the year with a bang,” I laugh weakly in his direction,

Normally an obvious joke such as that would gain his affection;

Not today and certainly not now.

Not right after I’ve turned him down.

He points out to me; “This is the third time this month,”

And for eleven months now that is three times more,

Than I’ve ever declined in a single more before.

 

 

“But I love you,” he reveals, “Nobody ever lasts an entire year.”

That makes me special, I hear.

His lovers come and go as quickly as one blinks,

Yet the reality is that I am no different than them; it will surely make his heart sink.

Make his heart with burn and break and sink so deep in the pits of his gut.

But he wouldn’t be the first one to fall in love with me – always such terrible luck.

I don’t love the way normal people love.

I love people as people or love them for sex, but never for both.

To ask any more than that of me is a venture of false hope.

“You’ll never keep me home,” I tell him,

“I always leave in the end.”

 

I don’t know why it is I expect anyone to beg,

I think so highly of myself, I guess I don’t expect anything less.

They always drop their heads in understanding, though.

Each and every single one of them nod their head in understanding before they go,

“I’ll lose your number,” he suggests as he shambles from his seat to the coat hang.

“But only because I’m too weak to resist,” he shares;

“But please keep mine. In case there’s ever a change.”

There will be no such thing, I’m sure, but I agree.

There is no mistake, though, because this is the last he’ll ever see of me.

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