You wait two days, then more; you’re angry then embarrassed and brief optimism is followed by wondering how awful it will be when you see him at a party because it used to be fun when he walked past and let his hand graze your waist, but now you know you’re not beautiful charming brilliant and it could be the way you fucked him that did it — you degraded yourself and no longer command his respect because you’re cheap grotesque or maybe just boring and you know this but even so you think he could still text you, maybe, tomorrow.
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Oh so painfully accurate