One month. A little more than a month ago I thought to myself, I'll never write again. Frank called one month ago and yelled I do not wish to be a character in one of your little stories Belle. I do not want to participate in the wordvomit you call blog. You stole my personality, put it on display, and I feel used Belle, I feel used.
And so I stopped. Without a word, without a goodbye.
Im sorry about that. That was rude. But since then I've 1) Slept in his bed twice, numb from cranberryjuice and gin 2) decided he is not the boss off me. He's simply father figure Frank. Triple F. The F man. Fuck him. Fuck me. Fuck the instructions on the back of my sleeping pills "should not be mixed with alcohol"
His breaths into the back of my neck was like a lullaby, his warmth made me feel safe. That night my heart broke all over again, that night I was a little girl whos mother drank to much and whos role modell left for a job in Dubai (or was it France?) That night I cried untill there was nothing left to cry about, nothing left to empty.
Nothing left to put on display