You Can’t Turn A Fuck Boy Into A Boyfriend

He’s sitting there, and he’s talking about his other girlfriends again. This doesn’t really bother me, mostly because I’m an open minded woman, and also because, even though, as he tells me tales of this girl and another, and I look at his face, which is unsuspecting at vulnerable at this moment, I realize: no matter how many other women there are, I am the only one right here. Right now. He can run off and fuck the rest of the entire world if he wants to, but that’s not going to change the moment that we are inhabiting together, sitting on the edge of my bed, sipping on whiskey, naked and still wet. ¬†And it’s not just that he’s here right now, but he was here last week, too, and he’ll be back here in at least seven days, as well. And, sure, he might run off sooner or later, but it’s going to be later rather than sooner, because he has spent too much time here with me to dash off so quickly. We will not be together forever, but we will be together often enough for it to matter to both of us even years from now. He will never be my boyfriend, but he will always be the boy that these poems are about. And I will always be the woman he came running to in dark moments when he needed me. Part of me wishes this were the unending love story that I am always trying to star in, but I cannot be the love of his life while someone else occupies that role. I am merely content with my bit part, the girl in the bed next to him over and over again for years on end. Although, I guess it’s good to know that not every story is worth telling, or retelling, or starring in. My bit part is the best part that I could ask to act in. I have never met his leading lady, nor do I want to. I have a feeling that his love stories don’t have happy endings, but no one bothers to hurt the supporting roles with the same aplomb that leading ladies suffer. Perhaps I will slink out of this story unscathed one day, but for now I am listening to him talk about the other women who aren’t here, and who won’t be here, not next week, and probably not even years from now. When they finally arrive, I wonder if I will be memorialized in his mind the same way that he talks about these other women. Or everything that feels special about being with him belongs to me and only me. I guess that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? I’m the one telling the story, so it’s up to me to write out his leading lady, and eventually I will write him out of the story, too. And it won’t really matter if my name isn’t in the opening credits of his story because –

No, that’s not true. It will matter. It will hurt. And I will feel every inch of pain every day until I find a way to make it go away. And until then, I will sit silently and listen to him talk about the other women.