Contusion.

And I still manage to click the wrong page. To say the wrong thing: nothing at all.

I manage to care too much, take it too hard.
        Sleep too little.
                 Think about you.

The coffee is long cold and you're staring at the wallpaper. I'm sorry; I'm not so fascinating. I won't be the girl with the yellow eyes keeping you up all night. I'm not the one with the red sex heels catching your eye across the street. I'm not the girl you're fucking behind the baseball diamond.
         No, you don't even remember her name.

I've been changing things, subtly. First I erased you from my sight. And you didn't notice.
         I won't read the pages that document you, but I can't rip them out - paper cuts from indecisiveness and they kill me.
I spent all I had on a wall around myself; it stands between my mind and everywhere else.
         Don't bat your eyelashes at me, at her - I want to pull them pluck them cut them out.

I'll want to stab you the next time I see you, fatal and sharp like poison running through your vapid veins. And then you will know; your stormy eyes will look at me and you  will  be  shocked.
         But I will just smile and nod, try not to talk to you because it isn't fair to hurt when you don't.


                                                             And you couldn't even remember my fucking name.