I told her she was pretty. Maybe all she wanted was to feel pretty. Loved. Maybe in her mind, this whole situation had nothing to do with sex. I told her she was pretty because it was the best I could do for a girl that only ever wanted someone to stay and love her, even after she gave herself to them.
I told her she was pretty. Maybe more for my sake than hers. I wanted so desperately for her to be pretty. I wanted to feel like I was entangling my empty body in something that would heal it and make it feel full. I wanted the smell of alcohol and the stinging of fresh cuts to be replaced by something pretty.
I told her she was pretty. I meant it this time. I said it so that she could remember me when she felt down. I said it so that when things weren’t so good, she could know that I thought she was good. I said it because I knew she was going to leave regardless of how much of me she seemed to hold unknowingly in her hands.