you show me a bottle of advil. you say to me, “if i swallow all these pain pills at once, do you think i’ll finally stop hurting?”“you shouldn’t joke about that,” i say.

in retrospect, i should have been grateful.

it was the only joke you’d ever told where i wasn’t the punchline.

i’d like to write your name in a bathroom stall. i’d like to come back every day, checking for tears in sharpie’d letters. for a “he’s such a scumbag.” for a “you’re not alone.”

i guess i want to think that you’re a criminal mastermind. i want to think that you’re a serial heartbreaker. i want to think out there, somewhere, is somebody else like me, who you’ve hurt.

(i know you’re none of those things. i know that you’re just a boy – and, really.

that’s the saddest part of all.)

i taught you how to stargaze, and how to uncross your arms and let people in.

you taught me that stars are just burning balls of gas millions of miles away (not a handy metaphor for love), and you taught me what it’s like to catch you with your pants down, struggling to pull them up, with your other girlfriend under you.

you taught me that my bones can hold 19,000 pounds, and that i am weak anyways.

you taught me to accept an apology with your hand down my shorts.

we used to be the same person. we had the same laugh. we loved hugs from behind, we wanted to live in the south. we actually liked mondays.

still, you left me. on a monday. so i became like everybody else, and vowed to hate them forever and ever.

turns out there’s a difference between us after all. i was sorry for things i hadn’t even done.

you weren’t sorry at all.

whenever we saw anti-smoking campaigns outside, you’d always pull out a cigarette.

i do the same now, whenever i see you. only i smile. i laugh.

like with cigarettes, you haven’t killed me yet. so i’ll smile while i can, and be happy while i’m here. saying, you were wrong. you were wrong. you were wrong.