• Dear Andrew

    by  • November 4, 2014 • * Safe for Work *, Heartbreak • 0 Comments

    Sometimes I write you text messages, usually of great length, but before my heart allows me to send them- my hands delete them. They all consist of the same shit, “how you’ve hurt me,” “I know you don’t really care,” “I should let you go.” Things like that. But I also know that with you- the sex is great. Your body pushes against mine with such force that my back arches and my lips quiver, but somehow my heart aches because I know you wouldn’t be so forceful if you really loved me.
    I should probably leave you. You’re no good for me, and I’ve secretly collected memories of finding other girls’ clothing on your floor. I know you think of them, and you talk to them probably more often than you talk to me. At this point, I have come to the realization I mean little to nothing to you. I’m, in your words, “your best fuck.” But at the end of the day, that really isn’t a trophy I can bring home and show the family. So I’ve collected miniature compliments you’ve uttered late at night, and use those to provide me with enough energy to walk to your dorm room again the next day.
    “My mom would have loved you.”
    “You’re so beautiful naked.”
    “I love you falling asleep next to me.”
    You never send me home in the morning, which makes me curious. I lay naked, tangled in your sheets, while you stumble to early classes, and you come home to me still in your sheets for one last fuck before I begin my afternoon education. Your roommates have grown accustomed to me staggering to the bathroom in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but your extra large Vineyard Vines t-shirt. But I wonder how many other girls know how that shirt feels? Have they found the tiny rip in the left sleeve, or the small fade mark below the “y”? I’d like to keep those my secret, if you don’t mind.
    I wonder if they know that you have a stuffed animal still in your possession, or that your family has matching tattoos for your late mom. I wonder if the other girls know how much you hate your roommates, or that your dad is your best friend. I wonder if they know you like I do.
    As much as I hate to admit it, I love the games that you play. I think they may be what keeps me crawling back to you. You sent me a text the other day that your dad stumbled across my leggings that you accidentally brought home with you, and I should have been mortified, but secretly- I smirked. You told me he asked you if I was your girlfriend, and then denied me of your response, like I was only entitled enough to know half of the conversation. I thought about asking again, but you always hate when I do that.
    Whenever I see your brothers in public, a small smile creeps over their face, and I wonder what they know. I wonder what you tell them. Do they know we get high together? I’ll admit to you, and don’t tell your friends, I hadn’t gotten high in three years before I met you. But when I met you- it’s almost like I needed the drugs so I could balance out the lows. Those drugs are fun, but you’re a drug of your own variety, and I can’t seem to quit you. Whenever I try, I miss the aching bones, and your skin against mine.
    I miss the chase.

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