I thought I was loving you, but it turns out I’ve been ignoring you for years. Not your presence; not your memory; not the smell of your hair or the angle of your eyes or the bold petulance of your voice when you believe in your own infallibility; not your diet, not how often you exercise, not how much sleep you get when you’re motivated by that perfect score, light on late into the night, make-up on thick the next morning when you go out; not the times you laugh, the times you smile, and what it must mean in regards to your chemistry; not the boys who take you to dinner and the girls who get you drunk; not the books you quote or the heroes you profess to have; not the ignorance you possess when dealing with the unknown, not the polish of your walk and the force of your mind; I could never ignore the way my chest constricts when you head out into deeper waters; I could never ignore the rage that burns inside of me when you arrive at some conclusion I’ve long sought; I will never be able to ignore the pain I felt by your heartless, thoughtless design and the love I experienced when I told myself that I deserved it; and above all I cannot ignore the fact that if I had only resisted my own mind and body, you might still worship me as you once did.
call me on Thursday night
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