on some level every action is
an affirmation of your acceptance.
I paint my face for you,
doll up for you,
dress to impress you but it’s never
good enough.
 
fucked up that I still have
that never ending, itching urge
to impress you even though I
know you couldn’t give less
of a shit about me.
 
and I feel your stare
when I see you.
your glance like fire on
my skin and I feel my heart
pump faster and faster every time
pathetically hoping you’d give
me that damn smile that makes me
fall in love with you all over again.
 
all those drunken “I love you’s”
you slur out to me in bed
make me forget about
what a piece of shit you are.
because when your whiskey laced breath
caresses my cheek
and you pull me impossibly close,
everything’s okay again.
 
but morning comes and
I find myself
waking up next to a ghost.