Dear Clementine

Oh, you knew it was too good to be true, didn’t you? You spilled your feelings too quickly, and watched them go to waste. You screamed from the rooftop, and all you got was silence. You spent your happiness on something that couldn’t last.

You caught on. The way it hit you in the gut, that things would fall apart, like they always do. This was inevitable. Because you’re fucked up in the head, and that has to come out eventually. Because burning bridges is the only way you can connect with men. Because when it comes to you, desire has a fast approaching expiration date.

They come here, strangers. Intrigued by the glimpse you offer them. Not realizing that the bigger picture is much uglier to face.

What can you tell them? When they see an opportunity instead of a warning sign?

“Oh, hi. I’m pretending to be well-adjusted so you will like me enough to fuck me but honestly I’m too dysfunctional to actually see this through.”

“Oh, hi. You’re a piece of shit, I’m a piece of shit, this isn’t going to work, but we’re probably going to keep following the script until we crash and burn. That cool with you?”

“Oh, hi. You’re just another guy I will never see again, so tell me all your baggage upfront so I can fuck you in peace, knowing it was already a mistake.”

You should know better than to chase after men whose interest was first piqued by your darkness.

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