F*** This ((Yeah, Right...)) in And The Rest.

Your fake, plastic girls with their wide plastic hips, their cosmetically-inflated chests and their sugar-pink candy lips. All their orange rubber curves spilling out of tiny thongs, pseudo-whores writhing in fake plastic pleasure for the price of a phone call. I notice you do not need little blue pills to get it up for Barbie’s sluttier cousins.

I hate those little blue pills. Sure, they’re the only thing that has ever worked, where patience and counselling and nice underwear failed. The problem is, there’s nothing wrong with you. If you can jack off over beach-ball-breasted porno-girls, there is nothing physically wrong with you, clearly you do not need pills to get it up… if you like what you are looking at.

So really, there can only ever be one conclusion. I’m not enough for you. There isn’t enough of me, I know that, you obliterated yourself on cheap skanky cider and told me so. Several times. You’d prefer huge curvy thighs and a rounded stomach and ridiculous silicone tits. I will never look like that, I’ve spent almost half of my life at war with my body and what is left now is all there is. This broken no-man’s-land is all I will ever be. I will never be what you want.

I’ve signed away my life, handed you my forever. The fairytale ending, the flouncy white dress, they were just the beginning. The rest of my forever will be spent behind your back, trying to plug the bleeding holes in my self-esteem the only way I know how, with other people.

Forever looking in all the wrong places for the momentary comfort of just feeling wanted, of feeling that what is left of me is enough. Forever giving myself away in exchange for empty kind words from the occasional man who is willing to close his eyes and pretend, and fuck this ruined body like he wants it.

Last updated October 25, 2014