You Tell Me That You Don’t Love Me

It Keeps Me Interested

You bite your lip when you tell me that you don’t love me. I want to remind you that you don’t have to worry. I want to open up my chest and show you the mass of scars that prove that I can live through anything you throw at me; I want to tell you that you can try, but you’ll never be able to hurt me as badly as I have already been hurt.

I speak the truth in crisp, quick words, and I don’t flinch when you turn your eyes away from them. I value honesty more than dignity or kindness. I don’t mind exposing my need to the world. I don’t mind if you try to break my heart. I intend to leave this world having felt everything that exists within me. I intend to leave shattered.

I told you one time, half-asleep and drunk off the blurred streetlights that lit us up when we sped past them, that the thing I keep throwing myself off cliffs for is happiness. You said that you prefer contentment, because happiness is so dependent on something happening. But you should know that I could never be still enough to be content.

I am addicted to self-sabotage and I can’t stand to wait. Every time I think that I’m about to be hit, I run headlong into traffic. When I thought you were going to turn on me, I screamed at you and slammed doors and called you names. I knew I was being unreasonable, but if you’re going to fight with me, I’m going to be the one to throw the first punch. I don’t like surprises either.

You talk about love like it lives with disease. You talk about how I’m not what you want me to be, so I turn my words into barbs and mention that I’ve only ever really loved him. I feign innocence when I say that I thought he was the reason that long-dead stars still lit up, and the only thing you light up is a match to burn me with. You talk too fast when you accuse me of still wanting him. I talk too fast when I say that I don’t.

When you tell me that you don’t love me, I want to tell you that I welcome the wounds. I want to tell you that I’ll just add them to my collection, and you’ll barely see them next to the ones he left me with. I want you to know that I am as unbreakable to you as hard iron bars. I want you to know that I’ll enjoy every minute of the fall-out.

But when you tell me that you don’t love me, I think you’re a liar.