I Can't Write Anymore.

I make my way home in the morning, the sky still stays dark. A Camel does nothing but increase the buzz; the severity of the realization. I'm slowly morphing into someone, but who could she be?
Your hugs are a little too friendly, and my hips don't belong to you. I don't want to see you lick your rosy lips, before you lie in my direction.
And it seems only scum tell me I'm gorgeous, and even they don't mean it anymore. Just a magic trick in your pocket, but I've seen the mirrors; we're not going anywhere.
I know your words are useless, they're all you can remember every night. In a different time and place, I would have never looked your way.
"Don't say that. You're beautiful, fun, you have an amazing sense of humor. Who wouldn't want to fall in love with you?" Oh baby, you could never handle me.
Dear, you're so cliche in the worst of ways. If you loved me so, you would have loved me then. But in the past were other women, other men. My face is not yours to trace, and my legs are numb in disgust.
I'm so over these dark little secrets; they're standing preciously still in the light. I've known all too many men like you, and I'm hiding them in dark rooms.