This is the Pain Talking

Our first was in a dark locker room (I do not understand why you couldn’t choose some other time or place), when I was mid-sentence with a stack of textbooks my arms.

I had only begun to adjust to being on the ground, and my sickness was beginning to return to the surface. I needed to go home and you should have already left. When I think about it, the whole scenario just kind of seems like a memory that does not belong to me—but it does. It feels too distant now; too unreal; too well-written. You appeared out of nowhere and suddenly everything is fuzzy. I do not remember what your lips felt like against mine, nor what you looked like. After all, you were gone a second later.

Our last was almost three years later after you made up the most transparent excuse to walk into my house.

We were no longer lovers. I was not dumb enough to be clueless about your intentions, but I let you believe that I was because I admittedly wanted the same thing you did. You thought you were being clever—perhaps even thought that you were being slick—but in reality, you were not even close. Your hairstyle never changed, nor your inability to subtly change the subject. The guilt continued to nip at my ankles, like piranhas that had not had a bite to eat in months. I was reminded of my reason for leaving, and I pushed you out the door after staining your shirt with my tears.

I tell people that you are a regret. I still don’t know if that’s a lie.