I think we all become different versions of ourselves for different people; and maybe that’s not such a bad thing, because I turned into ‘mystery girl’ for you.
I killed the good experiences, spoke only of the ones that left a bitter taste in my mouth. When you called, I’d answer with a sigh, as if I was doing more important things in the world than you. I got a tattoo on the inside of my thigh, a dragon painted indigo; and you made sure to kiss that spot every time we got drunk. I’m not sure what that says about you.
You were all the novels I’d devoured when I was a kid;
I could never really put you down. I wanted to sit you on my lap and read for the rest of my life.
You were an amalgamation of neediness and broken bottles,
But I think I loved you anyway. I loved the way you stuttered when you were nervous, and the way your cheeks turned fuchsia when you accidentally walked in on me in the shower. I loved that you carried me home, each time I got too empty and let the alcohol fill me up, in place of hot soup and a book in bed. You said, ‘sometimes, routine can ****.’
See, I’d never met a boy who made me think about the world, who made me think about beached whales and constellations and about how the moon can actually drive people insane. I wanted to be someone who made you think too.
So I buried myself in layers, piled them on generously, because I thought that maybe then, you would stay to watch me unravel, stay to discover why I wrote poetry on the back of my hands, why I was obsessed with the idea of leaving places indefinitely, why my mind came to a complete halt every single time you pressed your lips to my neck.
You got caught on a hinge somewhere between the third and fourth layers, and so I ripped myself open, got rid of the tight skirts and burgundy lipstick. Stopped leaving bite marks on your back, and planted kisses instead. I started being me, only when I realized, you never really intended to stay.