I once wrote about you that you were every cliché. What I didn’t realize them is that you would still be now. Oh I had hopes that you would never fade away, always whispering the longed for words in my too ready ear. Oh I met the opposite. Clichés of love turned into what look like brokenhearted ramblings. I’ve spent pages on you. I should’ve just let you break my heart. Instead I showed grace. I can’t escape kindness and it is my personal cell. All I wanted to do was hang you. I wanted to bring myself to tell you exactly what you did to me and how it made me feel- I wanted to make you hurt. I plotted ways and wrote the words. But by the time I formulated thoughts, too much passage of time had seen us and I was too embarrassed to admit I was still thinking about it.
But here I am, two months after the fact, writing about you again like I always, periodically do. Why do I get the feeling this isn’t the last time? As soon as I date my next entry I’ll think of this and laugh, or cry. I’m not on your mind. The words you’ve spent on me fit on a page and I’ve read them. I bet they don’t go past that, past that ending date. You don’t write about me anymore, I’m gone. The sentence I’ve been telling myself, I’ve finally said. I don’t mean as much to you as you mean to me. I’m fucked up over you like you are over her, and why the fuck shouldn’t I get my damn chance? Yes, I’m angry. She ruined everything we had and the person I loved. I hate her. I wish I hated her for any reason other than you. I want to hate you so bad, but instead I play best friend and throw myself at your screens in any effort to make you better. I want my hand on you so you don’t lose everything you were.
I want to save you. I can’t save you. You don’t want me to save you. You didn’t love me like I loved you. That fucking hurts. And you can’t help that. But I AM HURT. Still. This is me, unashamed, naked on top on Times Square, screaming at you every word I’ve always wanted to say. My chance was cut to shreds. It’s your fault. I did nothing wrong but love the shit out of you. But you didn’t hang on my texts or blush when I sent I love yous back. It felt routine, mechanical. Fuck you for not giving me your all. Fuck you for fading away. Fuck you for hurting me over and over, everyday. Fuck you for wasting your love on someone who will never make you happy. Fuck you for not seeing that the very key to your happiness is farther away than you like. And damn me for still caring. But I always will.
Here’s to hoping you come around. Someday, you’ll realize everything I could’ve been, and I can only hope I’m not all too eager to accept it. I’ll make you work even if the only thing I want is to hop into your arms. I blast that song and think of you. But it will never be that easy. I won’t let it be. I want this out of my head, or at least I want our relationship to a point I’m okay with, more than just on the surface.
In the meantime, you’ll never see through me.
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