Inches of Me

I wonder why it hurts at the end of the night. Like a sinkhole in my chest and everything falls deep deep down into the abyss. I call you all night to remind you to call me. Your voice-mail is full because you never delete old messages. It's not because I filled it up. It's not because you're a lazy ass. Your court date is coming up. Nothing serious, a misdemeanor that will likely be a huge-ass fine.
What do I want from you? You keep asking me this, I don't know any more than you do. I know on the surface I want a perfect man that will let me care for him, and maybe he'll care back. He'll call, talk for hours,  then come over anyway. He'll have a car, an apartment, a steady job. He'll love dogs, music, dancing, games and movies. But who doesn't?
I've been having a bug problem. Something curls up to me at night and bites me repeatedly. The bites have been killing me for a week, so I moved to the top bunk last night. Then I smashed something that looked promisingly like the bug that could give me these bites, tonight I'll sleep on the top bunk again just in case. I think I starved it out last night. I hope I did. I miss you.
I feel like these bites make me ugly. I shouldn't feel this way because you're not a superficial man. You're so real it scares me. So I keep calling you, just hoping to hear your voice and know you're alive. Please answer, I think. Then it gets to about five rings and I scold myself, fine, I say, Fine I don't care. I don't want you to call me back, ever. Because I know when you call back it will be disappointing. It will mean I won't see you for many more days, hours. You promised me you'd call today, nothing. Promised me tomorrow, nothing. Promised me Sunday, a call to tell me you're too tired. You slept all yesterday, you work tomorrow night, you miss me too. You laugh and try to joke me back to happiness. But you can't. All I want is your attention.
I keep feeding to your need for attention without getting anything back. You don't care to give me any attention so I know if I didn't call you five times a day I wouldn't hear from you.
This is how much is stuck in my head. I hate it.
The old relationships were boring and I wanted more conversation, more action, more reaction.
You give me something to fret about. But this isn't what I call more action. Just me being pathetic.
This is a pity party for one.
Let's get right down to it:
I want to talk to you. I want to hear your voice. I want to touch you all night, fall asleep in your arms, on your chest. I want to call off work and just lay with you. I want to do whatever you want, I want to see you smile after. I want to care for you like no one ever has. I want to love you until you believe me, until you feel safe again.
You don't want to feel safe. You want to wander until you find something interesting, then wander to another thing.
It makes me wonder.
When you told me you woke up naked in someone else's house, I wondered. You said it was nothing, pulled off your clothes while you slept. Where were you? Why?
You're a good liar.
So am I.
I kissed someone else. You drove me to it.
My chest feels like a chain smoker's.
This is what I've never felt before. But I can't put a word to it.