“I think I like your best friend.”
Such innocent words spoken over the gentle brush of the water slapping the cold tilesof the swimming pool– all eyes were on me, most of which averted when those words left your mouth.
I’ve written you countless letters, none of which you will ever be able to see. I prepared my heart for this, of course. Someone like her, who doesn’t realize the beauty she has and isn’t too loud, isn’t too quiet; she listens, she cares, she puts other people before her.
She isn’t me.
I’m brash, I think and talk too much, I’m too much of a wildcard for someone like you.
I’ve also forced myself to keep going as if everything was alright– even if I broke down that night in the hotel room, head in my hands and letting you know everything: how often I thought of you, how I couldn’t get you out of my head, how I would disappear. I had never cried so much.
I’ve been left and humiliated, torn apart and beaten; but there was nothing that could compare to those alcohol-infused moments where I could barely see you beyond a thin film of tears, trying to get words out through sobs. I saw it coming.
I hated you so much.
I hated it when you put your hand on my head, you forced me to look at you even though I didn’t want you to see the way I looked: ugly and red and swollen. I hated the way you told me I shouldn’t disappear because I meant so much to you– as that friend you could always count on.
Do you remember when I tried to leave?
Do you remember asking me where I was going?
“Away.” I answered you, do you remember that? Trying not to look at you and hand on the knob, lingering. I asked you to break my heart just a few minutes earlier, to set things straight and rid me of any hope. I turned the knob, ready to take on this new feeling of emptiness.
Then you spoke, knocking over one of the empty bottles of beer as your toe nudged it; maybe you were walking toward me.
“I’ll find you, you know.”
I hate you so much.
I hate you for being so nice to me, for picking me up whenever I was down.
I hate you for being the one who brought me home that night, keeping the door open for me while I trudged in home.
I hate you for trying to stay in my life.