Sometimes, in the dark, I can still feel your name on my wrist, burning through the skin. The insignia of guilt.
I always knew we wouldn’t survive.
From the start, I knew we’d never quite fit together. Inevitable. But, red flags never really mattered as long as you gave me shelter.
I knew you back when my playlist was half indie and half pretentious. I miss the way your eyes would glaze over when I’d talk about fucking someone famous. I miss how you didn’t shrink away from my awkward immaturity. You saw me: girlish, sometimes vapid, hopelessly out of touch. You didn’t bury me under some modified, false image. Your honesty bordered on brutal, but you never asked me to change.
I knew you could love the hurt away. At times clumsy, stumbling, stammering, and imperfect- but still love. My heart was ruined. Ugly from falling apart so many times. I was a mess. But, something in the softness of your voice and the stillness of your smile suggested home and safety- no more seeking.
I was your changeling.
Wild and free.
Paralyzed by fear.
But you didn’t mind. You took me in, at least as much as I would allow.
Honestly, I fucked it all up. I dissected your friendship and your heart, like you were some kind of lab rat. I walked away in one piece, but I tore us apart.
It was so selfish. I’d silently hold every mistake like a gun to your head. I denied you forgiveness and trust. I never bothered to offer you any solidarity. I can’t even say sorry to your face.
You still don’t hate me. You even loved me for a while, didn’t you? I told you I’d never come back, that I didn’t want you hoping for something imaginary. You didn’t have to stay and watch me leave you behind.
“I want to wait. I really don’t mind. You’re worth it.”
You kept your promise and everything. You never really stopped trying to love the hurt away.
I never looked back until now. I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry that you loved me.
You had faith in me. You shouldn’t have.