We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
and if I must be alone, then I will wear it with pride.
I will drink my orange juice, while fishing out the pulp with
a fork and forget that I ever let myself conform to
your silly desires. I will walk around my apartment
shirtless and stop at every mirror to admire
my love handles and stretch marks,
because I am fucking beautiful and you never told me
this enough. I will throw out all of your mail
and hope the neighbors stop by for extra
eggs or flour, or whatever neighbors want,
just so I can tell them that I am alone now
and laugh when they stumble to find the right words
to comfort me. You were the only one who could comfort me.
Everyone knew this.
and if I must be alone, I will not cry every night
because the bed is significantly colder when you are gone.
I will not keep your large t-shirts just to have your smell
linger on my skin a little bit longer. I will not read your piss-poor excuse
of a goodbye letter anymore and wonder what I did wrong.
What did I do wrong? I will open the windows instead of letting
the sound of your footsteps echo throughout these hallways.
I will not dial your new girlfriend’s number at four in the morning
just so I can hear you pick up the phone and answer with
that groggy voice of yours. I will not remember the first time
you told me you loved me. I will not make that groggy voice
what I hold onto when I must be alone. I will try to fall out of love
with you. I can not make any promises.