I am sorry for the following things

+ For not spending your birthday with you. When you called me and said you were waiting at a bar watching ‘Smokey and the Bandit’ for me to give you directions and then you rode to the last intersection I described on your bike in the cold October and then you went by yourself to the diner around the corner from your apartment to buy yourself dinner while I was making out with a guy I had already told I had no intentions of dating or even going home with because it was your birthday, while I was dancing to old blues songs with a man I didn’t even like, while I was drinking and smoking hookah, while I was while I was while I was while I was while I was

+ For making fun of your bald spot

+ For making fun of your insanely pale skintone while being privately fascinated that in the darkest room, you glow like a little moon tucked underneath my covers

+ For not cooking you breakfast the first night that you slept over at my apartment

+ For fleeing your apartment in the early morning the third time we decided to start seeing eachother again. My jacket was too thin for Chicago March 8ams, my skin was too thin. I sat at the bus stop huddled up in my own arms and I thought about how warm (albeit cramped and uncomfortable) your twin sized bed was. I thought about the quilt that your mother made you. I thought about how you kind of radiate.

+ For not slapping you the first time you called me a bitch.

+ For using your mere existence in the world to make my ex-boyfriend jealous. He has a very hard time with the knowledge that you’re in the world. It worked.

+ For mentioning you-know-who in every single sentence.

+ For keeping a picture drawn by one of your predecessors taped to my closet door

+ For not inviting you over the nights when we were really having fun, when you would have really enjoyed yourself

+ that you fuck everything that moves

+ that when you get drunk, you get aggressive and mean and it often takes more energy to deal with you than I am willing to put forth for you even though you put up with it from me all the time

+ that I blame you 100% for the loss of several already doomed friendships

+ that I am so anxious

+ that you make me so anxious

+ for ruining the mood that night that my best friend started hitting on you and I was so angry at her and she told you I was mad at you so you left and had we just stayed at the club instead of trying to go to a stupid party that my ex-boyfriend was at and I ended up ditching anyway we would’ve been fine, when we were having such a good time there, when we danced and sang and drank, when you acted perfectly, when things were going so fucking well and then that happened

+ that my boxframe is broken

+ that my room is always messy

+ that my friends all think you’re an asshole and hate you because I love you anyway and like you anyway because I love you all at once and it shows

+ that when you rode your bike to my house from the bar on the other side of town where we were celebrating my birthday, you beat me and I didn’t give you the key so you stood outside on my sidewalk in the terrible dawn and when I came home through the alley, having run as fast as I could without pitching forward onto my face on the ice, I hid behind my staircase watching you look for me, your back to me, your profile glowing like the snow, and I kept you waiting there for at least another five minutes because I couldn’t stop looking at you

+ for wanting very much to be a better person, to eat better, to be more positive, more understanding, more supportive, for you and then watching “Frisky Dingo” instead

+ for not following you out the door when you stormed out of my apartment last night

+ for not even opening my eyes or sitting upright on the couch when you stood in my kitchen slinging your bike over your shoulder and wrenching the door open and yelled at me, “everybody suffers. It doesn’t matter who you blame.”

+ that you really may never be satisfied

+ that if you are, it won’t be by me

+ for erasing your profile on my Xbox 360. I was angry.

+ that I am telling you all of this in a list and putting it on display. I feel like someone somewhere should know.

+ the vanity and pure self-indulgence involved in hoping that someone will care about this even if it’s not you

+ that this list was always primarily about making myself feel better. That everything about us has always been about making me feel better.

+ that this will not fucking fix anything. That I am still an asshole.

+ that I haven’t written anything good about you yet

+ for being horribly, painfully jealous of the pillow on which your head lay

+ that there are a lot of things left off of this list because I can’t accept the fact yet that I did them. That I very much owe you an apology for those things. That I probably will never own up to them, and certainly will not here or now or soon.

+ for wanting to fight everyone you’ve ever loved, including, hopefully, me

+ for that time we sat on your couch watching a movie after I told you I didn’t want to date you anymore, when you smelled like a taco after eating whole slivers of lime and popcorn and I told you that I felt like we were on a boat, sitting at opposite sides of the couch, both stretched out a little, leaning, and when you went to put your foot down I yelled at you to put it back because the floor was lava and I just wanted to keep your legs across my lap and you laughed sarcastically at “all those boats in lava” (I am sorry for never making sense, I will make sense someday, I promise) and I wanted to kiss you more than anything in the world but I was worried, not about the very real reasons why I knew we would never work out, not because I was worried that I would be giving you confusing signals, but because of the stupid things, the impossibly stupid and nonsensical and often imaginary things in the world that I am very afraid of, like carpets turning into lava, like you falling in and being lost to me forever the second I turn my head away

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2 thoughts on “I am sorry for the following things

  1. An epic list, Jasmine.

    For some reason these two really got me. You could write a poem about each of the things in the list, but these two combined could make a novel….and, in a sense, they do as stand-alones:

    + that you really may never be satisfied

    + that if you are, it won’t be by me

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