Delilah

D(1).

I shut my notebook and read the cover for the 65th time. SOMEDAY
I couldn't help but to think why he kept doing this to me. He didn't want me that's for sure, he didn't care about me that wasn't hard to see, and he didn't love me, he said so himself. So why every time I started to get back into loving me and working on myself did he slide back in, as if to see if I was still miserable? Or as if to make me miserable? He'd make stupid conversation and comment on a piece I had written, then he'd ask me questions as if to get some sort of understanding on how my life was going. Why did he need to know? Why in the hell did that muthafucka need to know?
"Fuck Him!"
And then he leaves, cause what he wanted to do has already been accomplished: He's now back in my head. Sifting through the bits and pieces of the memories we shared and throwing them back into my cognitive memory. Like "Here baby, a little something to remember me."

Well it ain't a little something.
It's a lot of something. Something that's got my brain pumping and my stomach churning. Send me away from him Lord. Give me the will to say "NO!"

I took a seat at my desk and let my head rest in the bed of my folded arms.