Smoking and texting don’t mix

Last night Jon and I made love in the missionary position for a LONG time. Afterwards, I laid in bed trying to fall asleep but my hips and the inside of my knees were throbbing from having my legs apart for so long and his weight on top of me.

 

I finally tossed and turned enough to wake him up and he gently stroked my back to quiet me.

 

He asked me if something was hurting, because I was restless, so I admitted that yes, I was in a fair amount of pain. Then, my lover put his pants on and went to the car, in the rain, to get some ibuprofen to end my suffering. 

 

When he climbed back into my bed, he asked me if there was something he could do to make my body feel better.

 

Innocent enough question.

 

But what slipped out of my mouth was probably hurtful and I didn’t even intend it to be.

 

I said… “yes…Roger used to put his hands on me and kind of knead it. His hands were so warm.”

 

Why?

 

What made me have a memory like that and why did it hit me like a ton of bricks and for God’s sake WHEN  am I going to forget every last thing about the man that hurt me.

 

I can’t forget.

 

Because he didn’t always hurt me. I’ve still never seen a man’s face light up like his when he saw me each week. I still remember the times he cherished me. I still remember the effort he put forth, determined to twist a coin into a ring to make my silly dream come true.. and no matter how bad I want to, I cannot erase the tattoo I have in his honor.

 

He is part of me that I cannot erase. I choose not to erase. That man loved me for over a decade, and Icky is not going to ever take that away from  me. She can’t change it. She can’t make it go away. And she knows it. 

 

That’s why three days ago, the woman that ripped my heart out decided to rear her ugly head and assuage her permanently bruised ego.

 

After all, my lover didn’t leave me of his own accord. I guess she wanted him to do it on his own, and when she had to do it for him, it made his actions a little less sincere. So now she’s butt hurt and insecure.  

 

I’m over here still trying to understand why he loves someone like her, someone that would do what she did, someone with zero empathy for other people. He isn’t happy with someone like me that loved him and groomed him and made meals for him. Nope. He wants drama. A bitch of a hell cat, only NOT the sexy kind. 

 

She had to take him from me in an underhanded, sickening way and I guess it just isn’t enough for her to be moved in and doing what I should rightfully be doing with a man I’ve loved for 16 years. 

 

She blew in and got what I waited 15 years for and that’s still not enough for her. She still has to open the door to my heart and spit inside of it so I have to taste her vileness every time that broken fucker beats.

 

I hate her for purposely hurting me. Why does she care about me? Roger doesn’t. So show yourself out the door of my heart, please and thank you. 

 

Yes. He still loved me when you were trying to get your hooks into him but now you have him. You took away the man he used to be. Your hands are dirty. Literally. Go wash under your nails. Be a pretty girl for him. 

 

Now, I still cry some nights, while you suck a meth pipe, with one day literally spinning into a week and you ain’t done nothing but take six appliances apart and think there’s FBI agents in your closet. Meanwhile, I mourn the man you killed, but I’m sober, and every single day is excruciating. I don’t blame anyone for addiction because I have compassion AND my own addictive behaviors. No, I blame you for your actions. Your continued efforts at cruelty. 

 

Why don’t you go away for good. I don’t know why you had to dredge this shit up other than you’re heartless. Why do you hate ME? Wtf did I do??? Stupid Bitch. I don’t want what you have. Don’t fucking sweat it. 

 

Roger is probably clueless that she even sent me a text or maybe he just doesn’t give a shit cuz hell, now the cat’s outta the bag and she knows my name. He’s just gonna let her rip me apart now that she’s dragged me into her den. I can see him letting her be the keeper of his phone, requiring that everything go through HER first. His wicked little call screener, if you will. I’m just saying, I can see him letting her be the new bully in charge of his life so he doesn’t have to be. 

 

It wasn’t enough to have his wife’s mouth in his face and my fingers up his ass, now he’s graduated to a fucking noose trying to choke the life out of him, robbing him of what years he has left.

 

The hangman’s coming for you, Roger. 

 

You’ve got your own executioner.

 

Sleeping next to you in bed.