Cicadas scream louder than the steady hum of my AC. I think of you. It's ice in my veins, a bad taste at the back of my throat. I shake it off but you come crawling back, always. Home alone, watching a movie suddenly becomes a flashback to your hand in mine, squeezing tight as you hide from the horror and I laugh, teasing. I can't watch it now without a shadow of you there with me. A hoodie, left at the back of my closet, still lingers with the scent of your laundry softener, and what used to fill my lungs with flowers now turns my stomach sour. You find your way into my dreams, and I am at once ambivalent to your presence there, and utterly sickened.
A bead of sweat traces the back of my neck. Do you still think of me? Do you wonder what happened to me? To us? Or are you oblivious, happy nestled at the side of the man you neglected to tell me was already your love before I was? You introduced him as a friend, you let him into my home, all the while knowing that after I was gone you'd sleep with him, high on weed and mdma and uncaring of my feelings. How do you live with yourself? Why would you tell him, be honest with him, and not me?
Stupid little things remind me of you. You haunt me, follow me around like a weight. How do I move on? The thought of you doesn't make me cry as it once did, but I'd like to reclaim my independence. I want to believe that I am whole, I am worthy. I want to believe that I am beautiful, that my interests are valid and important. You took that from me, with your childish insecurities and your lies.
As of now, I don't want to love again.