Midnight Moments

why isn't it me

My stomach is twisted. I can feel the nausea rising from deep within my gut. I can see the thoughts of insufficiency and loneliness clouding my judgement, creating a thick fog of self hatred that refuses to clear. I could try to fight it, but I would never win that war. It would only destroy me. 

You're with her now. My replacement. I'm fighting a losing battle not to talk to you. I hate not knowing what's going on. That should be me. Why isn't it me?

I normally don't think like this. I normally shove the thoughts out of my head with defiant force before they can swarm me, but my walls have broken down and I'm hopelessly vulnerable to whatever affliction may come. I wonder if you're doing the things we used to do. I wonder if you're lounging in bed all day arguing about what movies to watch and eating your mother's signature chocolate cookies until dawn. I wonder if you're waking up together. I wonder if you're falling in love. But most of all, at 11:06 p.m, I'm wondering if you're having sex. I'm wondering if as I'm writing this dejected, pathetic story, you're sharing a moment as intimate as they come, a moment I so desperately wanted to share with you, a moment I so desperately wish I could experience still. I wonder if she's doing something I never got the chance to do. I wonder if I've crossed your mind at all since she got there. I wonder if you miss me. 

When I close my eyes, I still see you. I see your worn sneakers in the corner of the dance room and her relaxed posture in the middle of the hardwood floors as you smile at her. I see your lips softly attached to hers from across the cafeteria. I see your hand grasping hers, thumb drawing intricate circles around hers in the way you used to with me. And then, I see a flash of horrifying scenes as I ponder what you could possibly be doing now. I see you slowly moving on top of her, your stunning eyes filled with lust. I see her sending an urgent trail of kisses down your perfectly sculpted abs to make you breathlessly call her name. I see unbearably graphic images of the things we should be doing, only I'm just typing the words while you could be doing them right now. 

I should be the one laying next to you in your intimately small bed. I should be the reason you're laughing, showing off those perfectly crooked teeth. I should be the forever you so persistently used to tell me I was. That should be me. Why isn't it me?