There’s a reason Taylor Swift can’t keep a boyfriend for long. The phenomenon is so absurd and so well documented that I even once found a question in a math exam that asked us to create a function for the number of significant others she would have in a given year (f(x) = too many). But then again, I really shouldn’t be talking shit about a woman who raked in over $13 million in a single week.
I can, however, talk shit about my ex-girlfriend, who happens to be the Taylor Swift of our grade, except several folds more psychopathic, and certainly far less entertaining. This particular girl was so neurotic and high-maintenance that she managed to leak her insanity into me within just a few days of dating, and once the relationship ended I literally had to go drink my face off before I felt alright again. I’d even say it was worth the hangover.
Without recounting the details of the relationship (because #PTSD), I can safely say that she reminded me most of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct — and that’s definitely not a good thing. So after surviving the ordeal, I was so proud of myself for still being alive that I decided to take a cue from Taylor herself and write about it. Ultimately, though, I decided to do it from my ex’s perspective, since writing it from my own would be maybe just a little too sad. Now I’d love to name this special girl, but my fingers keep flying to the letters ‘H’ and ‘O’ on my keyboard instead, so in the meantime, you can have fun with this dark, twisted look into a nightmarish few days of my life. (P. S. At the time of writing this, I am blackout drunk at a bar in Paris, so zero judgment would be preferred LMAO.)
I sleep on a mattress of a thousand lies,
Toss and turn beneath artificial skies;
Say goodbye to your white cotton bed,
Bid farewell to your conventional head.
Your warm melting eyes plunge me into a trance;
Throw me sky high with every wistful glance.
So kiss me on the cheek, put an arm round my shoulder;
Don’t take it away, else feel my touch turn colder.
But I stay warmer still, tie my hands into yours,
Let your tender listening rub into my pores;
For all you can lend is your every ounce of time,
So breathe my stories in, lest you happen to find
What I conceal beneath this blanket of gravity;
But tug it way, fall into a hole of my insanity.
So sleep tight, but not in your bed, in mine,
With me, and hear every artful lullaby
That I pour into your unwitting ears;
But, ‘Untrue,’ says anyone who hears.
‘They’re lies.’ ‘Don’t listen.’ ‘It’s all been concocted.’
But nothing’s quite as dull as plain, old cotton.
In my skies, clouds pour tears as I please
And leave me soaking so that I can seize
Your empty arms, your empty hands;
Leap into you and then finally dance
Forever, or at least till this mattress gives way
To the insipid truth, but then I’d throw you away;
Start hunting again, for the next feeble prey.
But why bother? If I can make you stay…
Keep you sleeping behind my locked door,
Keep you sticking around for more,
Keep you drowning in my emotional gore,
Keep you from exposing me as an attention whore.
Here, facts are few and far between,
But I’m so desperately hungry and keen
For an exquisite embrace from any kind of someone,
But a misguided lover intrigues more than a shotgun
To the head. So don’t leave me just yet.
Just let me remind you to never forget
That there is no life beyond, and if you choose to set sail
You won’t be much more than a pile of entrails.