Though I know you’re mine and I’m yours, a part of me is still jealous of the girl you’ve liked before me.
It’s always the same type of conversation every time I speak first about your past.
Even though I don’t want you to describe the girl, something inside of me still wants to know how hard you fell for her.
You said the both of you were alike; you were a geek and she was a nerd. You correct people when it comes to grammar, so does she.
You both like the same music, those Indie love songs that I struggle to find for the playlist I’ve been adding songs to for months, for you.
You said you liked her sense of humour. I wonder if I am as funny as her.
You made me a playlist. You told me you’ve never made anyone a playlist. Small things in my mind are pilling up, causing me to overthink. How many songs were there?
Are there songs in her playlist that are in mine?
At that time, you were thanking God that you weren’t going to be alone anymore.
At that time, I’m sure that you looked at her as if she was the one.
I’m sorry for the way that I am acting.
I’m sorry if I push you to tell me things about her even though it hurts me.
I’m sorry that I’m making a big deal out of it.
I know it’s all in the past. I know everything’s been said and done. I know that you two don’t talk anymore.
But I can’t help but compare myself to her.
I know she’s better.
I know I’m not the prettiest flower in the field.
I just wish you’ll never see her in me. Don’t look at me the way you looked at her.
If you say it’s all over with her, I’ll believe you.
But if you say I’m better than her, I won’t.
I can see it in your eyes; the way they look when you tell me stories about the two of you and when you tell me what kind of girl she was.
She is better than me.
I’m just lucky enough that you pick me over her, over anyone else.
And I hope that never changes.