I snarl my fingers into my short black bob. Would you be mine, if I grew it out like hers?
I split my lips and trace a thin outline with my tongue. Would you be mine, if they were full like hers?
I swipe a tear from my jealous green eyes. Would you be mine, if they were doe brown like hers?
You choose her. You always will. But that doesn't mean she has ALL of you, no, no ... You're here right now, in my pretty little head.
I start the voice recorder and something else.
The something else, a pretty pink thing, whirs to life. I clamp down on my nipples, not even flinching at the pain; the pain you wreak has done wonders for my tolerance. I run the pink thing across my stressed, angry flesh. I conjure up your cool exhalation's comfort. Your torrid tongue's comfort. Mmm ... I'm almost there. But not yet, I want to savour this ...
I don't really know where the pink thing ends and you begin. I feel pleasurable sensations against my rib cage, abdomen, belly button, pubic bone ... I'm surprised that I can still distinguish anatomy. And then, gone, it all bleeds together. Pleasure, pain, love, hate all twine into my sweltering heat. The eruption is a violent mess, just like my heart.
I attach the sound recording and send it off. One day later, I send an "apology." I'm so, so sorry! Please, please, please ignore the last email. I sent the wrong attachment.
This is when I really hate myself. I hate myself because I want you, but she needs you.