There’s an unread text message from you.
I hate this part.
This is the part when I know I should just delete whatever you said without looking. The part when I’m weak and everything my mother taught me not to be. I know I should just shut my phone off and continue living. I know after all this time, I shouldn’t still want you.
I shouldn’t still want you.
And yet, here I am, light-headed because my goddamn phone beeped and everything inside me knew it was you.
Contact from you always plunges me into a bad space. A hungry space. A desperate place. The kind of thing I’ve worked hard to escape. I shouldn’t go back.
I tell myself this.
Don’t go back.
You only ever want me when you can’t have me.
I’m your back up. I’m someone you assume will always be waiting. If things don’t work out properly, if Plan A fails, don’t worry! You’ve got your just in case girl.
I wasn’t ever meant to be this, you know. People have loved me. People have tried to move mountains for me.
I remind myself of that. I remember the mouths that wanted me, and not just as a consolation prize. I remember the men who would have laid down their lives.
But then, you reach out, and I think this thing between us has a shot all over again.
You reach out, and I see a glimmer of hope. I see the smallest spark and convince myself it’ll be enough to start a flame.
The truth always surfaces, though. You’re not ever going to want me. Not really. Not all the way. Not wholly and fully.
That is, not until I’m gone. Not until I’ve finally put this heartache to bed and stopped wishing for something you’re not capable of giving.
Not until I stop responding to your 11:45 PM texts.