BB Grey–musings

google knows all about it, doesn’t it?
how long I hover over articles about
people like you. algorithms tracking my
desperation like a dog sniffing at scraps.

20 years married, another 10 dating
all that time watching love die
like a plant nobody waters
while my ex-wife turned our bed into a desert.
I was crushed. yeah. I’ll admit it now.
felt like yesterday’s newspaper, crumpled
and tossed in the gutter.

then you came along
with those practiced fingers
and that porn star act.
Christ, you knew exactly what you were doing.
finding the broken ones,
the ones starved for touch.
90% success rate, I bet
picking through divorce court leftovers
like a vulture in heels.

I fell for it. sure.
your calculated touches,
those looks dripping with promise,
every “goodnight” wrapped in sex
like cheap perfume on expensive lingerie.
I fixed your house while you fixed
your grip around my throat.

stupid me, telling you
“best sex I ever had”
might as well have handed you
the knife to gut me with.

now you’re gone, blaming me
for whatever script you wrote
and I’m back in familiar territory:
self-loathing, second-guessing,
the whole goddamn circus.

but here’s the joke:
it doesn’t hurt as bad this time.
56 years of being broken
taught me something after all.
your 59 years of perfecting the hunt
met their match in my perfectly crafted mess.

still feel the hook sometimes,
trying to convince myself
there was something real there.
what bullshit.
but I learned your game
and now I’m playing it too.
not proud of it,
but hell,
at least I’m having fun.