guess I'm just stupid...

Am I fucking invisible?

Why am I the one that gets to suck it up, shed a few tears, and keep going? I just want someone to take care of me instead of throw me away. I know how lonely I am. “I don’t want to hurt her.” But fuck feel free to disrespect and discard me. Feel free to ignore my plea for compassion and admission of vulnerability. I asked him to not put me in this position. Feel free to disregard everything I feel. I’m alone on the road, again, and he doesn’t want to hurt HER! Fuck you! What about me? What about my daily routine of wiping away tears to create a serene expression?

I clutch the phone to my ear, sniffling and raging into the mouthpiece. I want to hate him. I’m so disappointed in myself for walking into this again. She listens. She wants to yell at him too. He hurt me. Tears cloud my vision as the car winds its way back to my hotel. Two more shows. I don’t understand. He likes me. He doesn’t want to hurt HER! It hurts. I don’t know why I’m supposed to be irrelevant and invincible. I don’t feel invincible.

I don’t understand. He likes me. We’ve always been drawn to each other since the day we met, over five years ago. We were together last year. We were together before they rekindled their relationship. Then I went on tour. He chose her. He wants a relationship with me, but he won’t leave. It’s not working, and inevitably they will go their separate ways, but not yet. He likes me, but in his mind it’s complicated. I get to be the one to fall. Maybe you don’t leave the good girl, with the good family and the picture perfect scene to take a risk on the stripper. Perhaps I’m too far removed from an acceptable life. He likes me, and I like him, and now I have to walk away... It hurts.

The TV flickers a superficial distraction as I struggle to rebuild the illusion. I want to yell at him. I’ve already yelled at myself. In spite of my experience, I fail to hold on to complete cynicism. I really should. I dared to hope. I dared to believe for a moment that it could be something other than a mistake.

I glance at the clock and drop my jeans to the floor. The mirror reflects my sadness. My eyes glisten with tears. I pull off my tank top and bra and examine my naked body in the mirror. I need to tan more. Slowly I paint on a new layer of makeup, a fresh layer untouched by tears. I smooth out my flushed emotions beneath foundation. My lips shine, liquid. Liner protects my secrets, and shadow detracts from the lies of sweet seduction. I hesitate with the mascara, reluctant to risk exposing myself, but add a touch. A final sheet of powder and blush create a soft and sexy deception. I still want to cry, but I won’t until after my shows. Maybe I am invincible. Maybe I’m just too good at becoming fictitious. Tonight, alone in my hotel, clutching my care bear, the emotions will flood. I might cry, but I doubt it. After hours of giggling, flirting and dancing I have trouble expressing anything real. Maybe I’m just too good at compartmentalizing.

It’s time to be the fantasy again… two more shows… I need happy stripper music.