too easy, shelagh

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I wrote you letters on an aeroplane. Letters that made you feel like I was thinking about you even at 50,000 feet. Because I wasn’t. Not really. I was thinking about me. Or who I might be if people like you liked me. I said I was thinking about your mouth and your fist in your mouth because I wanted to be important to you. To be essential to you. Because if I was essential to you then maybe I would be essential to me. But you were never that important to me. Not really. Never essential. Or, more precisely, not as important as I was to me. As I am to me.

I am sorry.

I am sorry that I would have sex with you and then leave before you woke up or go to another room in the same house so that when you woke up, still sticky, sheets half off, you’d feel shame and wonder if I’d left because you snored or you smelled funny or you were actually just shit in bed. I’d leave you there in shame, in the creeping shaft of daylight that exposed you for what you are, just really bang average at best. Not someone worth staying next to. Not even for another hour or two before daytime was unavoidably declaring itself and offering me an alibi for my disinterest. Not worth it. Not worth my time.

Sorry.

Sorry that I said it was you, always you, just you, again and again. But it was also her, and her, and her, and her, and her, and her. And her.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that even after years of fucking you around and leaving mix tapes you made me on CD players in other people’s houses, or making you feel small by asking you in the middle of date that wasn’t officially a date but was unambiguously a date whether you’d fuck a mutual friend or passerby, that even after all that I still said you were special and I lied. I lied to your face and said you were special while I lined up a date with someone new and then said I’d only wanted to be your friend all along. I lied. And I lied. And I lied. And I’m sorry.

I’m sorry. I think I am sorry. Sorry.