Monsters under our skin
You could be found anywhere.
Every place is the same.
 âNot hard to find you.â
She sat next to him wine bottle in hand.
Heâd spent the hour sketching stories, trying to tie back how his novel was on the mark before it even happened.
Itâs about a boy and girl,
some sort of love.
she was something else,
real flesh and blood,
nothing artificial; maybe thatâs why she tasted so raw.
 He went from one experience to another.
And then He met her.
She chose him he was positive of it.
He couldnât pick her for this narrative.
Some show up broken, and you want to fix them.
This was the first time he saw a bad experience,
that could give him love.
 He wasnât ready,
untamed,
promiscuous,
and kissed different lips,
let his lips slip more than youâd know.
 But she loved him anyway,
wanted to hang on,
mustâve seen he wanted the same,
just not far enough down the road.
 It was simple,
always was,
but they complicated it,
always did.
He made promises he couldnât keep,
so in turn she thought she could love him deeper, tighter.
 One day it slipped,
âI love you,â he said,
whether it was drunk,
or stupid,
couldnât tell you which,
sometimes people mean stupid.
A man should never love a woman that much,
outside of writing about her.
  And only her,
all for her,
it was time to put away all the other toys,
and on this birthday sheâd had enough,
heâd asked God knows what,
and her response was violent,
physical.
 It wasnât about the question,
it was the insecurity of every other woman,
whose legs he got between,
whether with his tongue or dick.
 That night heâd left her hotel broken,
didnât cry a single tear.
Just drove four hours.
So, thatâs how it began.
He fell deeper into her,
and she couldnât let go.
But that didnât change anything about them.
 He found himself in other womenâs beds, bathrooms,
sometimes her friends.
There ainât nothing healthy about it,
but thatâs love,
it isnât healthy,
itâs a codependency.
 Imagine it like a laundry machine,
turning and churning,
then it stops.
Itâd been years later,
but the same damn old laundry inside.
 They dated,
broke up,
she loved him,
he acted out his love,
never said it in words again,
he remembered what happened last time.
 Itâd all changed,
only touched each other out of love.
They were each others hummingbirds.
But itâd all changed,
his father cheated on his mother,
and he took that as an example,
figured thatâs who he was,
a cheater.
Why he was never going to be any good for no one.
He fell back to who he was.
 Seven years just like that,
come and gone,
she hit him out of frustration, anger
1,
2,
3,
4,
It went annually, then monthly, and now it came anytime.
She knew it wasnât okay.
 He never gave her loyalty,
knew it wasnât right,
but she never gave him a reason to.
But they hung on,
for when it was four AM,
they only talked to each other,
the rest of the world be damned.
 âWas he ever going to be just hers?â
 I think he wanted to,
he was afraid,
he wasnât ever good for her,
and he knew that,
even when she got drunk and violent,
sheâd sold him that it wasnât completely her fault,
heâd never done the right thing long ago.
 Luckily,
she finally let him go,
broke the cycle they were both in.
 All it took was for him to have a tragedy bigger than her,
Heâd lost his brother.
 âwhatâs that got to do with it?â
 Everything.
 She left when he died,
didnât think it was her place to be there,
she was done,
saw how unhealthy it was,
and she had a new love to be out in the open with.
 âThatâs awful timing.â
 Thereâs never right timing.
 âHe ever make it okay?â
 People always make it out alive,
they hang on,
clean up a bit,
but old habits have a long way of crawling out from under your skin.
 âYou ever get it out from under your skin?â She asked.
- Stories Iâll forget someday
