Living in half-truths. Cryptic. Open to misinterpretation. I sewed little pieces of the atrium of my heart into the pads of my fingertips; I wanted to create. Something in me saw the beauty, the cruelty of his apathy.
I’m angry that he never proved me wrong about him. I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt.
We are both right
one hundred percent
of the time.
The weather today was a mirror for how I felt; patches of rain, but mostly just gray. Angry, windy, Seattle gray. Ridiculous he made my face like this- wide, glass eyes, lips out and downward, stoic, pissed off, indignant, didn’t pluck my eyebrows because I liked the added sense of severity.
He could never tell the difference between my words and my actions.
He said, I’m sorry and I said No, you aren’t.
He said I Love You, once. I didn’t think he meant it. I said Thank You.
He can’t blame me for always having doubted him. He continued to prove me right about how little I mattered.
I let him put blades to my skin because I thought he needed it to feel okay with himself. I let him cut off all my hair, except for tufted patches along my scalp. I let us both believe he had any kind of power over me.
I didn’t get angry that time he was drunk and held a match to my skin. I was only a little bit pissed when he struck that second one, held it to the wound already starting
to blister,
red hot,
on my flesh.
Violent music explained him. God damn, and he lived up to every expectation I ever had of him.
So I don’t wear my scars on my arms like he does. So I never even pretended that I thought I was special to him.
It’s strange to me that he holds it against me that I was always exactly who I thought he wanted me to be.
I’m tired of being better to him than he is to me. I might have a smile on my face, but my posture is starting to get really bad from turning everything inward.
“Why should I? It’s not like we’re dating,” he said so many goddamn times. Lack of obligation was a fallback for everything. It was impossible to ask him for anything. I had to keep my mouth shut if I wanted something because I knew if I asked straight up he’d find a way to say no. It’s not that I’m not communicative, it’s that I had no room to be.
I want to tell him, “Jason, I’m tired of having to be the one to strain to see the good in you.”
“Your therapist
gets paid
to listen to your bullshit.”
It’s been so long. I’m tired of putting in more than I get out. There’s only so long a person will put up with that kind of selfishness.
“Who are you all dressed up for?” he asked me, spite-tongued, all the time.
I don’t want to be what he needs me to be.
I did everything he ever asked of me. Of course I started to feel resentful.
I would be happy before he got here, but I would be miserable by the time he left.
“I still want to be friends,” he says because that’s what you say to a girl
whose heart
you just
tore to pieces.
“You’re such a cunt,” I answer.
I always knew we’d fizzle out, I never expected to feel
explosive.
But he did it, he finally got to me.
We could be the ones who fall in love, but I dislike him too much.
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