I Wore Your Shirt To Bed Last Night
By Anonymous
Sometimes I still think about you.
Who am I kidding? All the time, I still think about you.
You know, when I met you, I knew it was going to end like this. I knew it wasn’t going to be some fairytale-storybook-Disney happy ending. I knew that eventually, you’d grow tired of me, like every other guy who carelessly tossed me to the side when they were done with me without any type of thought, without any type of care.
Nonetheless, I buried that thought so deep inside of me that a glimmer of hope started to form. That glimmer of hope lingered, despite the fact that what I tried so hard to bury slowly came creeping back, eventually eating away at me. That glimmer of hope ignored the voice in the back of my mind telling me to run the other way and never look back every time I saw your name pop up on my screen or even better/worse, saw your face in front of me.
Did I know that you wanted me for sex? Yes. Did I hope you actually thought of me as something more than just a warm body to keep you company? Yes. Did I hope that you would prove me wrong? Of course.
I have been through this before. I have been through it; I have come out of it stronger; I have moved on. So why is it so different this time with you? What exactly about you was so captivating that I attached to you like some blood-sucking leech without the ability to let go? I ask myself all the time how, despite your arrogance, your reputation, everything, I found you so attractive. Why I still do. Why I can’t seem to just move on and find someone who, in clichéd terms that my friends like to throw at me, “actually deserves” me.
But instead of moving on and attempting to find someone better, I’m writing this pathetic little article about you while you’re off doing God knows what without even thinking about me. You probably haven’t thought about me in a while. You probably haven’t thought about me since the last time I left your bed, weeks ago. Society probably considers you normal while considering me some psychotic crazed stalker, because obviously, I am just so bat-shit-crazy for hoping that sex actually means something in 2013.
When I think about you, I wonder if you knew what exactly you were doing to me. I wonder if you knew just how twisted I was around your finger, how much you could rope me in to let me go, just to rope me in again. Pretending like you cared about me until I’d sleep with you, ignoring me until the next time you wanted me. I wonder if I am just over thinking things. Maybe you are not some deranged heart breaker who is out to toy with girls just to inflict emotional pain onto them. Maybe you are just an insensitive asshole—an insensitive asshole who I still think about all the time and clearly cannot get over.
I wore your shirt to bed last night. I wore it and I cried and I drank way too much wine and I listened to really angsty Tegan and Sara songs and tried to tell myself you would never care for me back and to just get over it (the operative word being “tried”). I cried for myself last night out of frustration and sadness and feeling inadequate; I cried for you because you would never understand how much you meant to me and how hurt you left me. I wore your shirt to bed last night partially because I was out of oversized t-shirts but partially because I would rather have a little piece of you, despite all the accompanying sad memories, than be vulnerable and naked. I guess that basically sums up everything about you and why you are still constantly on my mind.
I guess I think of you because I would rather think of you than think of myself, all alone and broken.