I am not the one for you and I am so sorry.
I am trying to fall in love with you, but it’s just not working. Your face cannot get any prettier. Your butt couldn’t be any more perfect and bouncy. You are beyond beautiful. You are educated and you are a scientist. On the exterior you are my motherfucking dream girl, but I don’t want you.
You are making me a sweater from scratch as a surprise, and I need you to stop. Please don’t finish it. I can’t let you put so much work into something that is geared to fit my exact individualized measurements. I won’t appreciate it like you want me to. You won’t receive the loving reaction that you have earned.
I don’t listen for clues about what your favorite Sylvia Plath quotes are or take note of your favorite water-ice flavor. Slugs have 4 noses, and you weren’t the first person I wanted to tell. When I tripped off the ledge at Kelly Drive and fell into the Schuylkill River, I (justifiably) had a very dramatic reaction. For days, I whole-heartedly believed that had I contracted both syphilis and a brain-eating amoeba from the repulsive unsanitary contaminated water. Even during that time of panic and fear I did not find comfort in you wanting to take care of me. I found comfort in wanting to take care of myself.
When you’re driving behind me, I don’t get out of my car at a stoplight and run to your window just so I can kiss you. I don’t pick you a flower when we’re going for run. I don’t grab your butt in Whole Foods or try to kiss your face off every second. I don’t wonder about your day or save you that last Oreo in the Oreo sleeve. I don’t demand that you immediately cease what you’re doing so we can dance in the kitchen to Leon Bridges.
My schedule is not rearranged to fit you in. I don’t care if we’ve just passed your favorite candle at Target. I won’t pretend I’ve forgotten to grab gummy bears and run back to memorize the candle brand. I don’t feel compelled to steal your hoodies and hold them close to my nose because I miss you and crave your scent.
I don’t think we make love, I think we have sex. I don’t talk to you during or pull you closer after. I don’t count the freckles on your back or rub your shoulders at night. I don’t want to explore your body and know all your secrets. I have no desire to obsess over the details of you, like I should, and like you deserve.
When I met you, I was so vulnerable and heartbroken. I told you to do what you wanted and that I wasn’t ready. Instead you stayed and have so greatly assisted in converting my weakness into strength. You have helped make me brave again.
I’m thankful, more than you realize, but now I have to let you go. I have to get out of the way so you can be found by the person who can’t wait to kiss you, who doesn’t have to try to fall in love.