Please Do Not Love Me

Olga Yakovleva
Olga Yakovleva

Don’t love me. Don’t. Just don’t.

For I may not remember the year you were born, or the exact address of that place we first met, or your phone number, or what color was your shirt yesterday, or how many friends you have, or their names, or how long you and your ex had been together, or even her name. I may not remember those details, maybe it’s because I didn’t care much and I am really sorry for that.

But I will surely remember how you made me feel the first time I ever saw you.

I will indeed remember how my stomach twirled and turned the first moment you talked to me. I will remember how our first small talk, first chat, first phone call went. I will definitely remember all those signs that bestow glimpses of hope, all those words that gripped me together and further my wishes and expectations for us.

I will remember every curve in your body. I will remember every line in your face. I will remember how your eyes beams with your lips. I will remember every scar and every bruise you acquired doing whatever it is you considered your “thing” back then. I will remember that intriguing flaw just beneath your arm. I will remember that fascinating mark on your rib cage. I will gladly remember all these tiny but significant details that made up this beautiful man in front of me.

Please please please, don’t.

I will remember all your theories and chaotic thoughts. I will remember that one moment you wept so hard because you felt like life was too cruel to you. I will remember that terrible fight you had with your parents and how heartbroken you were when you walked out of their door. I will remember that one person who sustained you, carried you out of that dark phase in your life and somehow led you to a different, brighter light. I will remember those tedious nights you cred yourself to sleep while being devoured by the idea that life will never get any better (but it did, anyways). I will remember how you pushed, how you fought, how you overcame all those torturous shits you’ve been through. I will always remember how resilient you have been and how those wounds and remnants of agony have shaped you and evolved you into an even more exquisite soul.

I will absolutely remember the exact way you loved me and made me feel worthy.

I will remember how you memorized the way I like my coffee and what breakfast I like during Tuesdays. I will remember how you recall every important detail in my life. I will remember how you glanced at me then smiled so beautifully then told me that when you look at me, all you see is the rest of your life right before your very eyes. I will remember that time you confide your burning desire to live the rest of your life with me – to marry me and build a life with me. I will remember that moment you conceded that you don’t know how you would recover your life if ever you’d lose me.

I will remember how you genuinely loved me.

Yes. LOVED. As in past tense, as in with d.

With that, however, I will also remember how you left me that Thursday night at exactly 10:05 PM. I will remember how every constituent of my body vibrated and echoed that excruciating pain. I will utterly remember how broken I am (still), along with all your broken promises.

I will remember perfectly how it ravaged every beautiful element inside me; how you destroyed me.

So please. Do not love me. Please.

Because I will always remember those, like burns engraved in my chest, in my mind, and right through my bare soul. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Dian is the author of Catastrophes, a prose and poetry collection exploring living and loving, breaking and mending, falling and rising, losing and surviving. Get in touch with her on Instagram and Twitter.

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