The Black Queen Always Wins

He never takes me out to dinner. I buy all these pretty clothes and most of the time I just end up wearing them around the house to make myself feel fancy. He never even takes me out for coffee. But that's okay, right? I mean, we live in the same house. Sleep in the same bed. Drink out of the same glass. And also, I actually hate going out to dinner. I find nothing stupider than the idea that I need to leave my house to spend quality time with the person I live with.

But.

Now that he's out with her, I feel terrible that he's never out with me. I know that makes no sense but suddenly all I can think about is them sitting together at a restaurant. I can't help but picture her in black because in my head it's the only colour anyone wears. Why bother with all the happy colours? People die, roses wither and when you do find your perfect man you're just going to realize you want him to go out and fuck other women because it gets you off in some sick way. Fairy-tales are bullshit because in reality the black queen also wins.

In reality I also hate restaurants but I still wish it was me in a pretty dress with him just because it isn't me. If it were me, I would have complained about the food, wanted to take my dress off half-way to the restaurant and probably asked to leave even before we got dessert. On the way back I'd explain how dessert is killing us all. But because it isn't me, I am fixating only on the idea that the people who see them in that restaurant will assume they are a couple. They'll see her on his arm. His arm, where I belong. I hate myself each time I have thoughts like these. I don't belong anywhere. I hate this idea.

And I hate that I keep looking at my phone. I want him to text me or something but each time I notice that he hasn't, I feel relieved. I want information but I don't want him to give it to me. Just like I wanted love right before he left but I love that he didn't give it to me. Didn't hug me, kiss me, hold me or say any words. Just left. A part of me is upset because I don't think it was because he wanted to hurt me but because he was excited enough to see her that he didn't care that he hurt me. I expect him to hurt me when he intends to, but I hate when he sneaks one in without intending it. I don't know why but the lack of intent makes it worse.

But truth is more likely that I will take anything that makes it worse; I will cast all innocent information into a knife and place the tip against my own heart. Then I'll wait for him to find me so he can take the kill. So it feels like I didn't do it all to myself but I did it all to myself when I answered yes to everything single question good sense would dictate I answer no to. I did it all to myself because everything appears before me as a weapon to use in my own emotional destruction. Everything.

Like the fact that it's almost 1 AM and he still isn't back home. We never stay up till one. In fact, if I ever get him to stay up past eleven it's a miracle. I actually finally got up and dealt with my insomnia because of him. So that I wouldn't feel so alone all awake while he slept beside me. Now, I can't stay up past ten. That's who I am now and maybe it makes sense that he's not out with me.

Maybe all of this actually makes sense. Or it could be a palace of imaginative illusions. A palace where all the daggers are things only I see and all the altars prepared to sacrifice me are without an executioner. Or every single thing I fear is as real as the goosebumps on my skin when I think about them. Passionately entranced by one another.

Either way, it hurts. Either way, I get hurt. Whether we ever identify the perpetrator or not, I get hurt. The black queen always wins, and I'm the black queen.

But winning is agony.

And fairy tales are bullshit.

In reality, you just keep waiting for your prince even after you've found him. You keep waiting for him to finish up with the other women that tempt him. You wait for him to come home and fall asleep next to you because he's drunk and exhausted. You wait hours just to have him dump some filth into your mouth without ever saying a word. You wait because you know when he comes home he'll do you the kindness of hurting you some more. You wait so long you wonder if dawn will come before you feel relief again. You keep waiting with a blade pressed up against your heart.

And you like it.

Because reality is sick.