no damsel in distress

drunk last night and unable to turn steadily enough in my red heels to find my way to the waiting car. drunk last night, braided childishly, the way he exclaims he loves me, getting hard, and passed out, heels propped on the dash, praying he wouldn't return. but he did, to rescue me. to prop me on his shoulder, make more regular my gait, prevent me from dancing freely, insanely on the lawn, from falling when the pirouette was too much into the pond.

drunk last night and still i noticed his eyes lingering too long on her chest, slurring, repeatedly the same, the perpetual something's gotta change. he can't rescue this relationship from where it's fallen. he can't even see the bruises on its knees. he doesn't know the holes in which it's trapped.

he says it's because he can't intuit and asks that i do so for him, as though my enabling his shortcomings will somehow fill my void, as though it will do anything but make me wish i could more easily access the sidedish.

and still, sans intuition, he thinks he can, must rescue me.

he wrote me lovingly, maybe drunkenly, last night and he provided much of what i wish i got daily from my intimate interactions. maybe i need to seek more from those who would refuse to fuck me if i begged. maybe i should seek more from those whose identification is forever keen and limit my expectations of him. after all, if he's just the dick i live with, there'd be a finite number of holes i'd want him to fill.