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I Always Hit on the Wrong Guys

I had reached my point.
I had had enough.

I got as close to him as I could, invading his comfort zone.
I looked him in the eyes,
and I screamed
“Let me just tell you something about people like me.”
My eyes were still locked on his like a game of Mortal Combat.
“We have nothing to lose,
and when you have nothing to lose…consequences, pain, guilt, shit
like that…those things go out the fucking window!”

As I said it red faced with bulging veins, I saw my spit 
land on his chin.
I could have said “I really love Cake”, and it wouldn’t have
mattered.
It was the way that I said it.

I screamed so loud that my head hurt, and the windows
rattled.
Deep down, even I was afraid of the voice that came out of my mouth.
A voice I’d heard before,
but not coming from me.

Then I punched him in the leg a few times (as he refused to stand up)
I fully expected to be laid out on the floor in ten seconds flat.
With my blood and teeth surrounding me on the floor like the art
you made with macaroni and glue at school…

The punches got no reaction, and that pissed me off even more.

I pushed him over and over again.
“C’mon tough guy, show me what you’ve got. You like to be a bully,
remember?”
“I’m not gonna hit you, Debbie.”

I hit him again and again…on the leg, on the arm, in his stomach,
Then I looked down at him and he was crying.
I still had the red in me, so I called him a fucking pussy.
And I went on and on in that voice
(that scared even me).

Then either the voice left, or I came back.
Maybe both.
I was trembling all over.

I looked at him, avoiding eye contact with me, 
while tears were running down his cheeks.

I wanted to fucking shoot him.
I wanted to fucking kill him.
I wanted to fucking love him.

But I couldn’t do any of those things.
And I hated him for that,
and I hated me for it too.

He took off, left for the night to cool off.

And now I’m sitting here wondering if I’m still here…

And I remember the day when I told my psychiatrist:
“No, I never hear voices.”

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