When we first met, I was over the moon, oblivious to how important you would become to me. I still remember that late random night, when the room was washed with a neon green and my eyes were threatening to shut. It was March; March thirteenth, to be exact. Around 11 P.M. while the stereo beside me wept the wines of David Roback's guitar and the magic of Hope Sandoval's voice, synchronized when you sent me the question that I never thought would last.
The memory was fleeting, it all happened so quick. I remember every hardship and minor arguments we had, every first hug and every silent awkward walks down the hallways because we never knew what to say to each other- We had an idea, but the words would never escape our lips.
And just like every small memory, every conversation, every tear I've cried, every kiss, I remember every time you've ever called me pretty.
You call me beautiful. Every day that I remember being with you, you always call me beautiful, even on the days I've felt like I wasn't.
You compliment my eyes, how the gold in them glitters in the sun. You call them beautiful, deep, how you can get lost in them and never escape. You love my smile, you tell me it's the prettiest thing that you've ever seen. That my smile is contagious and you have no choice to smile when I do.
Your words flutter in my brain, tattooed in memory.
But now, I wish I would've stayed curious.
I believe social media is the reason why teenage girls loathe themselves and the way they look. I believe that the world would be much happier without it. That relationships would deal a lot better.
Your following consisted of many friends- some which I know, and some I do not. I took a breath of relief, until I got carried away and saw the rest.
My heart shattered to the ground. I no longer felt beautiful.
I have each of their names memorized, even now. And though there was not much, it was enough to make me feel something.
I knew I wanted to click off, right then and there, but I couldn't. I had to see. I went through each and every one of their accounts, and I couldn't stop. I don't know why, even now- but I finally stopped at the expense of each salty tear asking for entrance between my chapped lips.
Everything felt like a lie. If you loved me, why did you follow them? Why do you like almost all of their pictures? Why do you fend for their bodies?
Even now, I've asked you to stop- and you did. It's every girls dream to have a boy oblige when she asks him to stop. But it doesn't change anything. You still felt something for a girl- or should I say girls- who weren't me.
You're perfect. You really are. But sometimes I wonder if you would've continued to lust for them if I had never asked you to stop. Would you?
