We’ve run our course

Letting go of something I never grabbed onto. He was handsome, his lust found me, engulfed me. The moments together were light. Happy. And I, physically awakened. I kept seeking. Where was he. So simple. An opposing mirror to my complexity. The best me was suffocating. But my inner dialogues kept pressing. Don’t throw someone away due to an unhappiness with myself. Seeking someone to challenge me, bring out the best in me, seemed as if it was a problem I wouldn’t have if I was together, whole. A problem best dealt with myself.

So with the new year, I communicated. Me, communicating. Imagine that. I felt that there must be someone more interesting underneath the fine specimen of a human being. I wanted more. Yes. But I said what. After all, he had fallen, supposedly. A light request to someone who wanted an us.

But tides change. And he felt defeated. The month to follow, I was dealt my own recipe. Games I say. Games he said he didn’t play. “Straightforward, I am.” ┬áDense, I retorted. Nights of pain. Of hurt. Against a current of need. Something I rarely seek. This boy who “liked” me so failed to be the simplest of friends. Enough cuts.

So I tried. Multiple choice. A, B, or C. Your words don’t meet your actions. So either your feelings have changed or this sabotage will not be well received. A. we try and make this work. B. we enjoy each other casually or C. we part ways. Not C was the only answer I ever received. And the mention of defeat. Continued games. Continued stabs.

And me, somehow caring enough to communicate again. Imagine that. A request for him to tell me how he feels. A warning that my emotions were on their last leg (pinky toe rather) and that I have an uncanny ability to take my feelings and put them in boxes. Tied with a pretty bow. Of apathy. Of indifference. Emotional doom to never be reopen.

“I get it.” The three words I received. Tonight was worse. Another stab. And I told him, we’ve run our course. He says, “I don’t want to weigh on you.” And my innards screamed. On the mat at the gym. A diatribe of fuck you’s to a phone that died after his response.

A sign that a response is not due. But oh how I just want to say fuck you. Send him the definition of like, falling in love, and an us. I hate him so. and back to the resurfaced “I hate the words I love you.” the i love you, but.