I am so mad at you.
I’m mad that you started talking to me after eight months of silence.
I’m mad that being with you feels right.
I’m mad that you’re a virgin and you won’t sleep with your pants off.
I’m mad that you have never told me you love me.
I’m mad that you won’t talk to me about what happened eight months ago.
I’m mad that you don’t ask me to do stuff with you, even if I’ll be awkward around your friends.
I’m mad that your cologne is my favorite scent.
I’m mad that the half hour drive between us feels like the four hour one that is going to soon be a reality.
I’m mad that you suck at kissing and you’re not here enough for me to make you better.
I’m mad that you were here for me when no one else was.
I’m mad that has changed.
I’m mad that it takes you hours to respond to my texts, if you do at all.
I’m mad that you’ve made me cry more times than anyone else I’ve known.
But mostly I’m mad at myself.
I’m mad I responded to your message.
I’m mad I let you sleep in my bed.
I’m mad I let you back into my life.
I’m mad I didn’t want to talk about what happened eight months ago the first time I saw you since.
I’m mad I didn’t slap you in the face.
I’m mad I never told you how many times you’ve made me cry.
I’m mad I put your cologne on my hoodies so I can cuddle with them when I sleep.
I’m mad I turned down the best fucking guy I’ve ever dated, probably the only guy in my dating history who was good for me, to pursue something with you.
He did everything you didn’t, but his touch never felt the way yours did.
He told me he loved me. It was a drunken admission, sloppy and slurred, but one I never got from you.
We talked about moving in though we knew each other for only a few months.
He took me out with his friends and kissed me in front of them without hesitation.
There was no not yet, no waiting for the right time or maybe. There was only now.
We banged like rabbits and slept half-naked next to each other.
He told me I was beautiful.
But he didn’t wear cologne. The scent he left on my sheets was not as strong as yours.
And he only watches movies once, reads books only once.
He’s grounded in reality, while my life is lived in the sci-fi shows I watch countless times and the ridiculous novels I read over and over.
He’s a runner, slim and athletic. Today, I almost finished a pizza, alone.
I liked him a lot, maybe I could have spent my life with him.
But then you showed up.
And I picked you.
And I’m so fucking mad.