INVENTORY

He told me about the women he had slept with when we were apart. He was honest. And I had asked for it. He told me stories decorated with leather and violence and anal. Girls who relaxed in sweet drunken smiles and enveloped him in warmth. Lazily tumbling through bedsheets, glowing in the acid hue of the outside lights. Girls who wouldn’t ask him to pick up his dirty socks. Or turn away from him on a shared mattress. Girls who weren’t sad and tired. Girls better than me. Who had lеarned to turn their trauma into adventurеs for him to stumble blindly through. Instead of wallowing in their brokenness and breaking everything in their path as penance.