looking back in anger

to anyone who has had something ruined for you, this is for you.

I still think about you.

Hand down my pants, sweat licking my temples, sharp coil of— and you're there. Hand down my pants, fingertips tracing, smirk on your face, eyes wide, pupils blow and—I'm back. No harsh pants, creaky frames or sweat running down my chest. I don’t just see you here, I see you in the little things. The way that ikea lamp opens wide like your jaws, lips and saliva sticking to my skin, a trail of spit linking us together, because we did that. I see you in the books I read. Thick stacks and bold glasses, fantastical dragons and gryphons and lions oh my—I see your fingers tracing the yellowed paper, dogearring corners like a satanist and I’m the purist because I never said a thing. I see you in the things I wear, green dresses, wire frame glasses, loose shirts.

It's funny because I don't think you think about me, at least not consciously.

I’m sure you still find long locks of curly hair, clinging to your carpet like a lifeline. My perfume is clinging to your sheets because did you ever wash them? I didn’t think so. My tinted lips painting your collars, the sacred texts of Terry Pratchett and Brandon Sanderson that I bought you, dust settled, pages crinkling.

It’s funny that it took me this long to write about you. But as the air gets warmer and the days get longer I still think about you and you didn’t give a damn about me. Not then, not now, and definitely not when sticky sugar slips turned burnt, yelling–no, screaming, over text and call because god forbid you call me such things in person. coward.

I never loved you.

You told me in confidence, my hands down your pants, breath mingling and sweat clinging to your collarbones I licked. You loved me. You didnt treat me like that.

billie ray belcourt once said “ to love someone…[is} to be devastated by [them]”

I’m not devastated. I'm angry.

I’m angry because every time I look at someone I see you. Floppy hair, girlish smile, and a laugh that haunts the halls of mind. I’m angry that I never said anything back. They say silence is golden. Treat people with kindness—she’ll get what she deserves. Okay, I added that last part. I’m angry because every time I walk down grocery store aisles, cold air brightening my cheeks, favourite ice cream tucked under my arm, I think about how we ate it together. Spoons mingling, bowls clinking and ice cream on your nose. I showed you my favourite ice cream, movie, art, cuisine, sport and what did I get in return?

You: voice note attached. 

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So yeah, I'm angry.

But I’ll get over it right?

I’ll watch shows and movies and eat ice cream (not that flavour) and make new memories and seasons will pass and hikes will emerge and I’ll feel better right?

right?