You are no longer the woman I fell for.

I suppose that goes without saying. We change, or we don’t. Entropy exists. Apathy exists. Performance exists.

True, we have our moments. Truly sensational moments. Yet that is all they are. Moments.

Nothing is permanent. Hell, none of this is real. We’re all attracted to the next shiny object. The next titty snap.

So why pretend? Why perform? Is it love? Perhaps. Because I do. Love you.

I dream of you all the time. The way you grip me and hold me in at the same time your muscles convulse and try to push me out. The way your legs shake around my waist, before you put your calves on my shoulders. Still trembling.

Do you dream of me? Maybe you do.

Yet I know this intermission will end. A break between performances. No one can know what we really do. Behind closed doors. In the dark.

Even though they do. Know.

No wonder I am going insane. The performance continues. We barely speak.

Then the ding. Notification. Titty snap. A video of you fingering yourself. A brief “Come over.”

My short stay in hell. Or is it heaven?

Lord, it feels like heaven. So, it must be hell.

Hours spent in sultry, glistening passion. Before days addicted to “the struggle.”

Girl, life doesn’t have to be like that.

Life’s throwing bricks at you? Really? Why aren’t you building a castle with them?

There’s no nobility in suffering. Stop romanticizing your struggle. Stop shrinking to fit the mundane life you’re addicted to. That fucking screen that numbs you most days.

None of this is real. Smoke that cigarette. Fuck those girls. Sleep in afterwards.

Or…

Build that empire. Fall in love. Get more. Have it all.

I believe in you, but only if you can find a way to believe in yourself. Until then, we’ll just continue to fuck ourselves between heaven and hell.