You had me, and you knew it.
You spent months and months and months getting me to look at you like you hang the moon then afterwards you tell me that you weren’t ready to be mine. And I yours.
That what we had was all in my head.
So herein lies the crucible question; what the fuck had we been doing the whole time???
You kept me in ambiguity.
Your couldn’t commit to either being with me or getting out of my life, and that, right there, was the equivalent of pulling down your pants and mooning at my devotion to you.
See I would have loved you bald…even fat.
Rich or poor.
But I still wasn’t enough.
Sure we were great, but far, far from perfect, but I told you I wanted us to change. To take what we had and give it the whole nine miles.
Problem is you slinked about like a teenager who’d been grounded; sulking at me in the hopes I’d let you leave.
And so I did.
Now you’re back here, years later, asking for another chance. Talking about how we were meant to be.
However, I’ve got a learning curve; I refuse to let you back in my life at any capacity. I mean how can I love you and love myself at the same time?
I don’t hate you, I don’t resent you.
But whenever you ask to see me, I will always pause to ensure there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.
I do miss you though, not enough to act on it and that makes me sad.
I did dream that I’d finally decided to take you up on the coffee date. Problem is I needed a shovel and a gift of life to hear your voice again.
And that makes me sad.
I don’t even know where am going with this.
I write when am angry, my relief comes from watching pretty fires fueled entirely by my written anger.
Couldn’t burn this one since last year though; so I’ll just leave it here.
Anonymously submitted to ArtParasites