What a coincidence it would be if I expressed my dismay at required physical signatures, and had to meet my ex tonight. Outside, at a restaurant, I can meet him at the fence. I’m sure he’ll show up dirty, with ripped clothes – he dresses like a fucking slob in ways that must indicate an underlying mental condition – and I’ll graciously stand up from my glass table and full glass of wine, remove a folder from my purse, furnish a pen, and have the entire town (it’s a hilltop restaurant) watch me free myself from that ragged ass street urchin.
I used to imagine that at my funeral, while I was waiting to bleed out of the only wrist that I could hold a knife to after he dislocated the other shoulder, or drifting off into whatever chemical oblivion I hoped would finally be better than having someone so beautiful tell me once again that I was the worst thing that ever happened to anyone, that I was selfish, and not good enough, and just a horrible whore and no good to anyone and an embarrassment to his family, and there was not enough money in the account and why don’t I just go fuck someone for it and obviously I’m not good enough or I’d get as much money as the white girls on the internet and now he can’t touch me because I’m a dirty whore and I’m so pathetic I can’t even kill myself… I used to imagine that at my funeral they would say that it was a shame I was so beautiful.
I am so mean to people when I try to protect myself. Like a fucking cornered animal. He is going to leave me, so I have to leave him. I can say whatever I want about it, and I will, I have, but that is the truth.