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What haunts me and won’t let me sleep

That’s what I tell myself as I zone out, block out, let his words wash over me and out the door. I know, probably better than he does that he’s not lying when he says he thinks he’s falling for me. It’s true that he enjoys our time together. We click.

But I also know that in the morning he’ll leave and as he does, he’ll convince himself he doesn’t really care about me. It’s casual. He won’t call, he won’t text. Until I hear from him again. We’ll do it all again.

“He’s a great guy, we’re friends.”.

That’s what I tell myself about the second guy. It’s nobodies fault. There’s no blame to be placed. We click. The sex is great. But…The timing isn’t right. We’re in two different places, on different tracks in life. We’re bad for each other.

Each of the many men that lie in my bed, that fuck me past the point of orgasm, leave. My decision, their decision, our decision — irrelevant.

Regardless of whether they’re invited for their company or their sexual skill set at one point or another they get up, dress themselves and never come back. They disappear into the ether as if they were never there. Leaving behind nothing but the shadows of what could have been.

“It’s fine, it’s fiiiiine”.

That’s what I tell myself, at night, as I pad lightly down the never-ending length of my hallway. I swing my head back and forth, keeping an eye on what’s ahead but checking there’s nothing coming behind. As my heart beats faster my chest tightens, my breath hardly noticeable as I glance into my room. There’s nothing there.

There never is.

Clambering into bed, burying myself beneath the covers. I lie and wait for them to come.

Unwanted visitors, shadows of doubt. Never quite showing themselves but always with something to say. “You’re not good enough” they shriek raking insecurity through my body. “You’ll never find anyone”, they whisper as I lie alone. “It’s because you’re a slut” they spit at me.

They force a frenzy of images through my mind — inside jokes, naked bodies, laughter, fun. What once played on my mind’s screen in HD, a rose coloured resolution now grayscaled out, cold and empty.

Ghosts of relationships that won’t live to see another day.

I toss and I turn, twisting to face the other way. Hiding, ignoring what won’t leave me alone. That’s the thing about being a woman possessed. Even when you want everything to stop, it won’t.

Chained to my bed, the bed they all fucked me in, the voices expand and multiply. One for each guy who’s no longer there. Building and growing, louder and more intense. Muddling ideas and memories with feelings and thoughts. Endless loops of torture tying me in place. Paralysing me. Tormenting me. Never happy until I relent.

As quick as they started they stop. Their presence no longer palpable. Empty silence. So quiet, in fact, I nearly wish for them to return.

That’s when the real fear sets in.

Because that’s the moment I realise, I’m haunting myself.

Photo by Andrei Lazarev on Unsplash

Originally published at

Helping women and other marginalised genders dominate their finances, own who they are and live their champagne lifestyle.

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