a Soul Project

archival : to resent :

The dog takes placeholder One,
I take placeholder Two.

My anxiety of dogs seizes hold,
You cuddle the dog to reassure her of love.

I am second rate, to you.
I am your second choice.

If you feel otherwise, I have yet to see you show it. I have yet to find an example of you genuinely putting my human feelings before that animal's "feelings." Who do you fuck at night, and then the next morning? Clearly, your whore, second rate girlfriend, or whatever you would call me.

You drop me off at my apartment as I cry. You drive away to be with your dog, which you've clearly missed all day since you were stressed enough to take all of your anxiety out on me. Because I forced you away from your dog this morning, right? I forced you, puppet man? I am to blame for your stress. Like for the stress of having to buy a faulty air pump and finding out it doesn't work by the time we're at the lake. I surely subjected you to that, being that I forced you to come out in the sun on your last day off. And since you don't want to drive back to the lake that you could "spit on from where I live" because you "just want to get in the water already," then we'll do it your way, diva. And when you've made the joke that I "owe you dancing" because that idea didn't work out the other night, then I make the joke that you "owe me the lake" when it didn't work out today, then "that makes me hostile" and how dare I because "you don't owe me anything."

So you drop me off at my apartment as I cry. I cry because my attempts at peace and my attempts to relate to you, to speak your goddamn language so maybe we'll understand one another, these attempts have been twisted and warped until you see them as threats to your perfect, one-man-one-dog world. You look at me and you feel disgust at my tears, tears from being blamed for doing nothing but trying to connect with you and having been slapped in the face for it.

I don't know why you even want me around.
I must be a pretty good fuck.