You left a purple bruise on me. The one only I could see in the shame faced confines of my blue tiled bathroom as the icy needles of water hit my head, spiraled down my tresses, and mingled with all other waste and into the sewers of this city.
I had stirred in me the emotions that I had locked into one corner of my bludgeoned heart before I met you on that fateful day.
I had assumed you were my long lost serendipity. I looked at the happy couples swarming the streets by the sea and thought we were one of them. Holding hands as the sun pierced through our sunglasses.
You turned out to be a con artist of the strangest variety. You proofread your act before performing at my theatre. You enunciated, dramatized, and romanticized your emotions that a hardhearted slut like me bought every bit of it.
I am ashamed of having acquainted myself with you. To have let your tongue slide into my ears and coherently lie to me. To let you kiss my cheek a 1000 times before a million betrayals. To have let you fuse your full mouth with my forehead in a liaison of deceit. Espionage it was. You are as pure as the driven snow and I still might have pangs of attraction mingling with hateful venom for you every time you text me something sassy.
I think of your grin, as lopsided as your intentions and your torso that stood two heads taller than I did on that sunny day. It rams me into beliefs like “All good looking rich men are a farce like you’’
I probably misjudged you. Did not see through my rose tinted glasses that you were looking for a torrid affair while I dreamt of fixing you eggs Benedict on a slothful Sunday.
I probably should have believed my gut instinct and known you were a callous bastard.
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