You're pretentious.
You keep a Che Guevara poster in your room
and colour-coordinate everything.
Your room is like a vomiting rainbow.

I hate rainbows—
their brightness, and what they stand for.
Hope and happiness
are almost as pretentious as you.

I’ve moved on.
I don’t think about what your shampoo smelled like,
Or what your opinions on my actions would be.
I’ll forget about you.
I will.

We were always so different—it wouldn’t have worked.
But when you said you liked me, I believed you.
My deep emotions scared you off...
Could you not handle them?
Handle me?

You said I was intense—
Like that was a bad thing.
Like feeling deeply
was some kind of flaw,
instead of proof
that I actually cared.

Ahh, to care,
what a horrible thing to be fought up in.
Wouldn't life be so much easier if it all bounced off my shoulder?
If I could look at you and not get that terrible knot in my stomach,
always longing for you to come back into my life.

You made me feel
like too much and not enough
at the same time.
And now—
I second-guess every action I take,
every emotion I show.

I still replay it sometimes—
The look in your eyes when it was just us two,
How you could never hold my eye,
The way your fingers traced my hair...


But I’m learning to let go.
Not all memories are meant to be lived in.
And loving you
doesn’t mean I have to stay hurt.