I take a shot of whiskey

and I wash it down with another

and I stare down my phone

willing it to illuminate with a message from you.

I hate myself for this.

She may have cheated,

and you may have left,

but two years later you apparently still fuck her.

and I have to accept that

in our quasi relationship "it's complicated" status.

I hate myself for this.

There is nothing I can do,

no gesture, grand and subtle,

to make me more desirous to you.

I could fuck someone in an effort to hurt you,

but it wouldn't really hurt you,

and I don't really want to.

So I sit and I brood

and I feel the bile rising in my throat

as I imagine your lips upon her,

and how her body feels in your hands.

Does she ride you better than I do?

Does she taste sweeter than me?

I suppose the real question is

are you worth this torture?

The answer is probably no,

but until I figure that out

I'll keep taking a shot of whiskey

and washing it down with another-

and I hate myself for this.