Feelings On Paper

an apology

You were my type:
Tall, handsome, funny, a great conversationalist, a great advisor, a gentleman—
I think that's what set it off;
you were too perfect.

There was nothing wrong with you,
even your music couldn't bother me despite it being a genre I detested.

You found the good songs in artists I never knew could be anything but disgusting.

You were even the best driver I knew,
and my anxiety of dying on the road would disappear as your hand lay on my thigh.

You were mature yet childish enough to make my inner child smile,
smart enough to help in math,
but not too smart that you made me feel dumb.

No severe mental illness but know enough of it to understand me,
to know what to do to help.

You were always so careful when holding my hand;
when kissing me it felt like I was cherished.

We went on so many dates and never once you forced me to do anything intimate past cuddling.

God, you were perfect—
I like to think in another life,
we built it together.

But alas,
your perfection was unnerving.

Where was the red in this vast meadow?
How could someone so perfect want someone as broken as me?
Why would you want the girl that throws up from the anxiety she induces upon herself?

In reality,
you made me insecure.

You called me pretty every day you saw me,
complimented my intelligence with each conversation,
and reassured me with your feelings and intentions anytime I asked.

How, then, did you terrify me?

In reality, I was scared to know you any more.
I was anxious to grow attached to someone new,
to be hurt by someone I was just getting to know.

I grew to care for you,
become anxious for you,
want to be nothing but with you while also wanting to run away from you...

I'm sorry,
I knew I was too unstable for you.

I knew I was too broken,
I knew getting to know you while being romantically involved would break me,
and unconsciously cause harm to you.

A part of me will never forget how special you made me feel,
and that part will always regret not taking it even slower so that I could have prevented you from getting hurt.

But it is best I fucked up when I did,
broke things off,
and I hurt more than you were;
because truly, the guilt is still here,
while you have probably already moved on.