I wanted to keep you. Fuck how much I wanted to keep you. I wanted to keep waking up and walking into that wildly messy kitchen and making instant coffee. I wanted to keep you in those gray sweats, those black jeans, those glasses that were always dirty, that sweater I told you wasn’t too tight, and that leather belt dented where I bit down on it.
I wanted to keep you even though you were her boyfriend again before the bruises your teeth painted across my thighs had even faded. I had to wear them like a sick reminder that you were never mine and never would be. You turned me into your band aid, your whore, and your dirty little secret.
Still, I wanted to keep you.
I wanted to keep you. I wanted to keep waking up against your warm, strong chest and nuzzling my lips into your neck. I wanted to keep losing sleep from how many times I’d change positions when I slept next to you – unable to decide which I loved more – being curled up against you or with your arms wrapped around my back and your face at the nape of my neck. I wanted to have more chances to tell you I loved you in hopes that one day you may have the courage to say it back. But the last day in the airport you held your tongue as I ran to my gate.
I wanted to keep you even though I destroyed myself over losing you, and I swore I never would.
But now the number on the scale is sinking and the numbers in my bank account are growing courtesy of men twice my age. They pay for something that definitely isn’t love. I think they want to keep me.
I think the irony is crippling.