Not mine to write

Eighteen months,
Eighteen months and five days
to be exact,
since she left him.

His heart broken,
not by her hand,
but by his own.
With no desire to care
or
connect with her
on the levels
she needed him most.

All that time
he has tasted her
on the back of his throat,
the sweetness of her tongue,
felt her nails
down the flesh of his back.
He has heard her voice,
echoing in his dreams.

He calls her,
when he cannot muster the strength
to keep his pride up
and bravado fails him.

He calls,
just to listen to her voice
recorded on a machine.
It makes him feel good,
even as it makes him weep.

Poor little spoiled boy,
Peter Pan never had to grow up,
so why should he?
Except he wasn’t Peter Pan,
and he didn’t have Wendy to take care of him.
Not any more,
not since he stopped being there
for her when she needed him the most.

All he had was his anger,
his hatred,
the self loathing
he directed outward
into the world, cleverly disguised
under the taste of alcohol
and distorted by the haze
of pot smoke.

Charming,
fun and happy he seems,
as long as the party doesn’t end
and the faces are on him.

In the dark,
in the silence and the isolation
the tears fall,
the sobs begin,
and he lashes out.
Asking Wendy’s new man,
how his cock tastes
as he lists his conquests,
the women he has had.

And he forgets,
that he has no one now.
Not like he once had,
never again like there once was.

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