Over and over, I keep thinking of that one thing you said: "You’re
the last person I want to . . . hurt . . . like this."
I’ve got a fucking news flash for you — TOO FUCKING LATE! You hurt me,
and you hurt me a helluva lot. You hurt me with your cowardice, you hurt
me with your self-absorption. You hurt me because you knew that I was falling
for you harder and harder, and you didn’t have the balls to tell me straight
out that you didn’t feel the same way. You let me continue to feel sorry
for the troubles you were having, and you kept neglecting to hint that maybe
I was one of them. You told me you liked me, and that you liked being with
me, and maybe you did. The fact remains that you didn’t say shit when
your feelings started to change, even though you constantly dwell on
everything that bugs you.
It was like I had to pull fucking teeth to get you to even suggest that
things weren’t okay. I had to ask what was wrong, and then say the words
for you, only to have you numbly agree. That first time, I felt like I was
completely losing control because you couldn’t even get out a whole sentence.
I had to do all the work, and most of the talking, and you just gave up
and said you wanted to be with me. Couldn’t you just be honest enough to
come out and say it? Why did you have to make me say all those things about
how much I cared about you and about how scared I was about that? When I
told you that appeasing me — sticking around even though you didn’t feel
anything — would be far worse than simply telling the truth about whatever
you felt, why did you do it anyway? What kind of a chickenshit bastard
are you?
The other night, after we spent the whole day together having fun, after
I made you dinner again, what were you thinking when you just picked up
and walked out without so much as a handshake? Were you thinking it would
be easier to just tell a little lie and see how long it would take for me
to put all the pieces together? Maybe it was easier for a coward like
you, but it was a pretty rotten thing to do to someone who had invested
as much in the relationship as I had. It was pretty rotten to make me call
you and demand an apology and the truth.
The worst part of all this is that I would take you back in two shakes of
a rat’s ass if I thought I had a chance. Your moodiness is a problem I can
deal with — I have with lots of other people before — so that in itself
is not enough to scare me off. If I thought that you could love me anything
like the way I was starting to love, I would set myself up without hesitation.
Maybe you’re fucking screwy, but other than that (maybe because of that?),
you are incredible.
I think that’s what stings the most. I’ve had so much trouble finding all
these nebulous, rare qualities that I value in people, and you had so many
of them. You were offbeat and quietly funny and smart and unpretentious
and fucking beautiful in just the right way. You also had other qualities
that I hadn’t realized I needed so badly in a lover — you made me feel
calm, relaxed, like I could really pull it all together for once. You were
most everything I could have wanted, and now I can’t even think of who else
could pull it off, certainly not how I could even meet someone like that
again. You’re a bastard because you couldn’t feel for me, even though I
"did nothing that was ever wrong." You’re a bastard and a chickenshit
asshole and I want you and I need you and that pisses me off more than I
can really say.