You left two days ago in a random funk because you ran out of weed. You said being here was like jail, even though you were the one who asked me if you could come over and I am the one who hesitated. You texted me later that evening and again in the morning, offering to come over again. But being with me is like jail, I thought to myself. I am like jail to you. Existing and turning inside out and rearranging my time and letting you inside my life when it wasn't even my idea. Like jail. I don't want you to feel like you're in jail, so I didn't call you. I reminded you in a text that you left because after our candlelit bath that night, you wanted to buy weed more than you wanted sex with me. I didn't call you. You made it clear. I am jail. Letting you in my house is jail. Cuddling is jail. Letting you eat all my food and sleep in my bed and touch me, feels like jail to you.
Two days went by and I obviously didn't want to make you feel like you're in jail by saying hello. So I kept silent. Now it's late and I thought maybe you were done being mad, maybe you were stoned enough to act like a boyfriend, maybe you would want sex, or just to say goodnight. But when I finally called, your phone was out of service. It happens every couple months. You don't pay your phone bill. Or you lost your phone while drunk again? Either way. I cried. Because I love you and all I wanted was to say that but despite all you say, love isn't really possible with you, is it?
Amor, if I have to give my body and soul over to another in order to experience the love I deserve, I will take myself to another who is very eager and willing to give me what I need in your repeated absences. And I know losing me would kill you. Such a weak heart shouldn't play such games with a woman. You've made me tough and cold.
I'd tell you I'm packing and leaving tomorrow to be with someone who wants me, but it seems I can't call you from jail. He has beautiful eyes and holds the door open for me and kisses me for hours, every time you disappear. Maybe you're doing the same thing with someone else. I never said you couldn't, because a woman is not a jail.
A woman is not a jail.
And that's why I am free to do what I please. Stay alone crying over you? No. Tomorrow I accept the offers of a taller, more handsome man, with his own car, and his own apartment, who texts me every day and every night to make sure I feel appreciated and valued and wanted. Tomorrow I will sleep with him in his bed, while you teach me a lesson, my fingers in his beard, caressing the back of his neck, singing with him all night on his arm, cuddled under a blanket with a movie. Yes, punish me until he's my boyfriend. Punish me until you've lost me forever. One day you'll wake up from your stupor, and look around, and I won't be there anymore. Go ahead, amor. Try it. Enclose yourself in your own jail. I am a free woman, I am not your property, this is not your house, and I am falling in love with someone else, so you enjoy that yeast infection of yours, and have all the alcohol and weed your little stomach can hold.
11:44 p.m. - 2019-12-12