Bottlefly Wings

Tinder Guy.

A boyfriend would care about the fact that I am trapped beneath a weight of sadness, alone in my bed, half crying, half too broken for the tears to actually come out.

But you didn’t want a girlfriend, and I didn’t want a boyfriend; so, you don’t have to care.

A little colour swatch poem I wrote which I think came from this feeling too. 

Sometimes you pretend to though; whether in a secluded act to make me trust you enough to pull the fabric from around my skin, or whether a genuine attempt to make me feel safe is unclear.

But I’m here, broken.

I’m so aware now of why they keep leaving, of why I’m easy to replace, of why I’ve never left them sad or broken, simply relieved or numb. I warned you. So why are you mad at me? Why are you angry with me for not being reliable or committed or even happy?

You said you didn’t want a girlfriend.

You try to use it to your advantage, but I’ve seen this before, manipulation at its finest. If I really cared I’d do it… well there’s the thing, honey, I don’t care.

I imagine you’re not aching in your heart and your hands like I am; you’re aching between your hips but that’s not my problem. Just like it isn’t yours that I’ve been chewed up and spat out and am not worth bothering with. No. Not my problem, that’s what you have hands for.

It's funny how you think that one swiping motion makes you physically and digitally entitled to my body.

I didn’t let you in so that you could use my scars to paint your own pretty little picture; no. It’s nice to fill your time with something, don’t flatter yourself with pleasantries. I had to learn the hard way people don’t always mean what they say, I’m helping you along, you’ll thank me later.

You love yourself a lot, more than you could ever love me, I know that. But in desperate attempts to distract myself from the pain ripping me apart beneath my ribs, I imagine what I would say if you ever told me you loved me.

Would it warm me up inside? Would I feel something this time? Would all my broken bones fix together as if they were never crushed beneath the weight of an impossible commitment?

I start to wonder what happened to me. What happened to the pretty, skinny, hopefully naïve fifteen-year-old who could love with all her heart as if the universe was at her fingertips.

Fuck knows.

Until I figure it out I’ll keep messaging but don’t get your hopes up; people like me and people like you are destined to never be touched by love.