This Is Not About You

I hate you. Except, maybe I don't.

I don't want to write about you, and this pointedly isn't about you. It's not about how you ruined my day with your goddamn stupid face. Or about how maybe it did the opposite, because it definitely did not and this definitely is not about you. And it's not about how I hate when you seek me out just to irritate me. It's not about how your existence is the bane of mine. Or about how I think you might know that it's not, because I don't want to write about you.

I don't want to think about you, and I'm not thinking about your glasses and how blue the eyes are behind them. I'm not thinking about how I stutter and lose my words when I'm talking to you, because it certainly is not due to you. I'm not thinking about how you seem to be the only one who actually hears me and responds, because if I can speak loud enough someone else must hear and respond too. I'm not thinking about your sarcasm that counters mine, because I don't want to think about you.

I don't want to know about you, and how you like whiskey and hate tequila. I don't want to know about you and how good you look when you're outside, leaning against the wall and killing yourself slowly, because you don't. I don't want to know that you work out and I definitely do not notice. I don't want to know about how your family knows mine and we know the same places and recognize the same damned faces.

This is not about you, because I don't want to think about how I fucked up and caught feelings. I don't want to think about you or how you've crowded my thoughts and started pushing out the last person. I'm not going to write about you. Instead I'm going to lie to myself and I'm going to lie to you, because I'm no good at any of this and I don't like how you make me confused.

Reviews

[Emily B]

I don't understand why there aren't any reviews. This is good writing. I'm coming to the table a little late. Glad I didn't miss out completely.