Two Days a Week

I’m wondering
why
and how
I became
one of those
pathetic
every hour
phone-checking
women.

Excuses:
1. I’m getting over
the most intense
love
I’ve ever had
so
this is a distraction.
2. In my head
he was
sincerely interested
in me.
3. Calling me
sexy girl, toots,
baby, and doll
were signs of
affection
toward me.
4. He wanted to
see me
the other
day,
even though
broken ribs
made it impossible
to fuck me.

All these ideas
I tell myself—
disguising the
real truth.
He probably
just likes me
enough—
stands me
enough—
to see me
two days a week
and nothing more.

When did I get to
be a
two-day-a-week
-whore?

Those girls
aren’t me.
They wear
slutty clothes
even to the
grocery store,
and more makeup
than the transvestite
living above me—
who knows full well
he’s not fooling anyone.
Those girls—
are more concerned
with reality television
than actual reality.
They read trashy
novels
and consider themselves
an intellectual—
and are convinced
that their man
would never
cheat,
lie,
fall out of like
or love
with
them.

I’m not those girls.
I’m not those girls.
I’m not that
goddamned girl.

And yet—
it still hurts my pride—
I think more than him
not calling, that I
took it upon
myself to stay awake
from 2:00 am to 3:30 am
in case he called.

Well no more.
I can play up
indifference.
he won’t see
he had any effect
whatsoever
on me—
I almost hope
he never asks
to come
to my bed
again,
because I don’t know
If I’m strong
enough
to say
no.