a sick realization
nauseated at your modest style,
your clean undyed hair
and oversized coat.
quickly, hastily, i undress you
with my vision, peeling off
layer by layer, hoping you're shivering,
all to see you as he did.
once, he promises, but a lover's heart
is taught to be wary.
thin, bony, tan, smooth.
no shameful leg hair or
painful razor burn on your labia.
no-a rich girl is untouchable.
he fucked you, tasted the inside
of your cheeks, touched your hair,
your skin. you tasted him, no doubt.
i know how he gets with a drink.
loud, selfish. you sucked his dick,
probably tried to show off, wrap
him around your finger as a cheap ring
with your tongue tricks. i hope you
had to fake your orgasm. i hope he
left you to find your own pants, lit a
cigarette before looking at you afterwards
. i hope he told you about me, so now,
sitting three up and one over from me,
you can put a voice to the face, to the body,
to the girl who won. who doesn't fake her
orgasms because he knows her, cares enough to make the effort
and stain his lips, his fingers, to watch her
toes curl. i hope you're thinking this, now,
sitting three up and one over from me,
biting jealousy into your lip, dreading
work tomorrow when you have to see him,
bring it up, no doubt. i hope you're
sorry, sad, embarrassed that your cunt
wasn't tight enough for him to come back
for seconds. i hope you're lonely,
sitting three up and one over from me.

bitter bitter words. i don't even care anymore, but i thought it was necessary.