Demisexuality

Demisexuality is... odd.

I ponder this as I watch my friend, giggly and moon--eyed traipse after some puffed-chest man into the bathroom. He's the third this week. She also has a boyfriend.

Cheating is senseless. Lust is useless.

My lips ghost the crystal cut of my glass, flickering my eyes over to a man who's trying, (and failing) to get the bartenders number from where he's bowled over the sticky countertop, subtly flexing and flashing what must be a charismatic smile.

Its odd.

Because I know what lust is. it is all around me.

Its thick in the air, and laced into the music.

Its in the messages left unopened on my social media.

Ive been told I need to meet the right person, as if it will grease the broken cogs.

But I can't see anyone as desirable if I do not desire their soul.

It's why it's so hard to date. Because I cannot-- I will not-- give my body to someone who doesn't want my bloody, pulp of a heart too. Not again.

I will not let someone kiss my scars, if they're just going to reopen them. I am disfigured enough.

So I sip my drink, and mourn every relationship I have had, not for the person, but for the flesh I laid bare to their touches.