fuckable.

It’s Thursday night and the room’s wavy because I’ve just had my sixth shot in a row bought for me. It feels like he looks at me like I’m the only girl in the whole room. Like I’m the most miraculous thing to ever enter his life. He leans in to kiss me and I feel cherished. Dancing. Carefree. I feel beautiful. Will you come home with me tonight? Butterflies. It feels like he’s just proposed. I nod and giggle like a little girl. True love.

He holds my hand as he walks me out of the nightclub. Fingers interlocked, I’m his now. People shove past but he won’t let go. He won’t let anything hurt me. On our walk home we’re giggling and chatting with boxes of takeaway chips like we’ve known each other our whole lives. Funny how conversation is so easy when you’re with someone that loves you so much.

Minute one. I get in his bed and hold eye contact. He gently caresses my face and starts undressing me. Nothing is in his eyes besides tenderness and adoration. He’s so in love with me. Minute two. He breaks eye contact to look at all of me. He wants to appreciate my beauty in full. What a gentleman. Minute three. His eyes are anywhere but my face. I notice he hasn’t said anything in a while. Minute four. He’s no longer smiling. He has a job to do and he’s doing it. Our relationship is now purely professional.

Minute five. Done. He turns over and abruptly falls asleep. I don’t feel loved. I no longer feel cherished. I don’t feel beautiful. My phone illuminates my face in the foreign pitch dark room before burying my face in the already damp pillow and crying myself to sleep, trying not to wake him. It was all a farce. A lie. Fuckable, not lovable. That’s all you’ll ever be.