Bunny, it’s after midnight, and I hate that I’m still–after all this time–thinking about you. I hate that I want to seek you, to search for you, to know where you are and how you are and if you are OK. I hate that I know that you are in a new relationship; I hate that I know that you moved on so quickly; I hate that it gave me all those feelings of “but why can you love HER and not ME?” and I hate that the woman I’m seeing asked what I loved about you and it made me remember everything good and beautiful and perfect and missable about you. I hate that there was so much GOOD. I hate that sometimes I can hear your laugh and see that face scrunch up in joy, and other times I forget how you sound and how your eyes spoke volumes to me.
I hate that when I feel close to her I think of you. I hate that it feels like I will never be OK from the love we lost. Even though logic, and common sense, and time, and reason, and lengthy inventories, and therapy sessions, and late nights with friends over wine can give proof to justify our end–I hate that it still feels so. fucking. unfair. I hate that I have to keep telling myself “it was real, it mattered, it was really real,” and that the part of me that needs to let go has to tell myself “it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.”
I hate that I think you never think of me like I think of you. I hate that I think you don’t miss me and rarely look back, and that if you do it’s in anger and regret and filled with a bitter taste in your mouth. I hate that we built this life together and you want nothing to do with me. Like I’m dismissable like a fly you swat away. I hate that I still HURT for you.
I hate that I feel like I’m a human being who is incapable of receiving love, of being in a healthy partnership, or opening myself to allow all the good I deserve to actually permeate me. I hate that I miss that high of when I saw those glimpses of our potential, when I felt like for a few hours maybe that I actually HAD you. That you were with me and loved me and SAW and WANTED me, that I was yours and you were mine and we were indomitable. I hate that I don’t feel that rush. I hate that in those memories, I couldn’t pause to savor and feel grateful for your presence as its own gift, and instead foreboded joy by imagining how to re-create those moments, how to predict and control and plan to have you more, for longer, deeper, stronger.
I hate that I know I loved you so much and in hindsight it felt unhealthy. I hate that I didn’t know then what I know now. I hate that I hurt you and that I think you will never forgive me and I will never see you again. I hate that I can’t apologize and I can’t forgive you to your face, your beautiful face. I hate that I still smell that laundry detergent on your shirt the first night we met, I still feel the warmth of your tears on our very last embrace. I still feel you.
I hate that I know I should go to bed and the longer I stay awake the harder this night is, the harder these nights are. I hate that it’s almost Easter and I see bunnies everywhere and this time last year we were disintegrating into this, into nothing, into hurt that lingers and lingers and lingers.