qotd: what color are your eyes? - 💌 -
I loved you when you reached under my shirt after I finished sobbing on you. I was drunk and I said no. I loved you when you didn’t talk to me for a month after; I blamed it on the fact that I hadn’t shaved in months. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.
I loved you when I thought about all of the places your hands have been. I sat up wondering why sex was only good enough when you drove six hours to get it. I sat up wondering why I had to listen to my best friend tell me you tried to fuck her and why you didn’t expect me to call you crying. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.
I sat up thinking my standards were too high. I was overreacting. Sex means you’re wanted– you taught me that. You taught me that when you used sex as an outlet for your insecurities. You taught me that when you cheated on me because you were loveless. I thought about how meaningless something you thought was so important really was to you. I loved you when you guilted them into sex; I loved you when we didn’t have sex in weeks. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.
I sat up thinking I would never find anyone else I would forgive for all of this. I told myself the more pain I endure, the more in love I am, and love will heal this in the end. I sat up thinking it was me. I was too easily scarred. My bones were made of glass. If you fucked me, you would break me. So you wanted to love me. And you couldn’t. You can’t. My mother told me it was all about sex. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.
I loved you when you kissed “I’m sorry” all over my body and I wrote “sex is okay” all over napkins and menus and notebooks. I settled. I always thought you were passive, that I needed to give you power. But you soaked me in, and then you left without a note like a one-night stand. It’s my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fucking fault.
I didn’t lie when I told you off the first time. I just believed in you. I didn’t lie when I told you off the second time. I just loved you.