Cliché Gut Wrench

I am so hurt and distraught, humiliated by the idea that he never once considered me as more than a friend he could fuck. When those thoughts would pop up, he’d type “haha” in his mental dialogue box and move on, sure I wasn’t it. So sure it’s not me because he’s already created his love with his robot wiring. He knows what she looks like, how she laughs, how small and quiet she will be. He knows how she tastes and how she smells and how well she’ll fit into his palms. He likes it good and easy, so he’s already prepared to give everything to her, think of her needs, twirl his life to fit her moods. Isn’t that what love does? Doesn’t love bend and twirl for its object? I could tell him it doesn’t. I could tell him he’s got it all wrong, that he is looking for a one-way street, and no one wants to walk one-way forever, even if they think they do. But why should he believe me? He can already taste her in his mind. He knows how glorious it will be to shower her with all the affection he’s got saved in his hollow, throbbing chest.