This wasn’t how I imagined my Friday night to go. You see, last Friday I had friends over, drinking, laughing, and then when it was over I texted you. It was the night you astoundingly said, “I’m pretty sure we have the same feelings towards each other,” and how you wanted a picture of me because I was, “really pretty.” Two statements I wasn’t used to hearing, two statements I began to love to hear.
You knew my insecurities, my motherfucking insecurities. Maybe I came on too strong, I get it, but it was a way of protecting myself against becoming a complete bitch and shutting you out, like I had done to guys in the past, and it was a way to let you know I had feelings in case I self sabotaged against them. Granted, you were the one who said you wanted it to go somewhere, so I figured you were cool with it. I figured you understood.
And maybe you did. That’s why the conversations stopped. You finally understood that my feelings were abundant, and I was actually hoping for a relationship. You knew that you could break my heart with a snap and maybe you thought that silence was the best choice to avoid that. Don’t you know, silence is the killer of all progressive movement.
I even confronted you. You weren’t sick, but the intentions of your heart were as ill as a rabid dog. Your soul turned as black as the tar that held the feathers close to my heart, being whipped with every thought of your name. Suddenly my hands had nowhere to go, my arm didn’t have anywhere to wrap around, my eyes had no one to look at with longing to expect a kiss.
And so I sat in the windowsill of the Verizon store, stuck. I couldn’t leave or I’d lose my turn and I couldn’t run inside myself because it was filled to the brim with memories I wish hadn’t happened. What was once full of blood and oxygen were now filled with mistrust and lies. Nothing seemed honest anymore, nothing seemed worth it. So I waited my turn, left, cried, and realized that above all, I had lost myself in the span of a week, and I wanted her back.