I couldn't understand exactly what game I was playing with myself.
I wasn't the type to share much with the mirror.
This was different.
I wasn't looking at me —
I was looking at the one I was chasing.
Dear future me, I met you last night...
—
Half a bottle in, I was so relaxed,
like I had done this for years.
This… what is this?
Is it what everyone calls manifestation?
I was — I am — yet to understand,
but I don't need the name just now.
The moment was just perfect.
So was the amount of wine,
but that didn't stop me from pouring more.
—
I didn't realise how deep I was in this delusion game
until I started having imaginary conversations
with people I know, with people who used to matter.
I guess I wanted them to see me as I see myself today —
calm, soft, seductive, precise in my imaginary answers.
I felt like I was rewriting the pastand ending it the way I never had the chance to before,
because the version of myself then
didn't know what "no" meant, except for herself.
—
I could feel the slow breeze on my neck coming through the window.
I wished someone could have touched me then
and given me another reason to fulfil the future.
I wanted to be admired as I was admiring myself —
openly, unconditionally, and hard to resist.
My lips were touching the edge of the wine glass like I was expecting a
kiss.
My skin was revealing everything with electricity.
And suddenly I just wanted to turn the light off,
right after leaving the white behind on the floor,
in a small devilish dance, erotic for myself.
I knew this would happen again the moment I lit a cigarette in bed.
I felt dirty, crazy, and satisfied.
—
I was my toxic guy.
The rush. The intensity. The morning after.
Except this time, both roles were mine.
—
Dear me,
I woke up reborn.Re-fucking-incarnated.
I don't even know how to call it — maybe fulfilled.
The feeling was weirdly familiar.
I used to feel like this when I woke up after D. —
the 2:13am door, the blue eyes,
the most magnificent toxic man I ever met, broken beyond repair —
a fucking masterpiece of toxicity.
Feeling used, with crushed dignity traded for a great orgasm.
—
Dear me,
It is a toxique summer.
And the hunt has begun.
Who the fuck am I turning into?