I Suck at Goodbyes, So I Wrote You This

I’ve been neglecting to write this since August-because I know that once I do I’d be saying goodbye to you, both the real you and a figment fantasy of all what you couldn’t be.

Last night, I had one of those emotive conversations that can only take place after 1:30 a.m. on a weekend in a college town; it featured an evening that invites recklessness and encourages those nursing damaged hearts to be a little too open with their vulnerability.

I had gone out with a poor expectation of the evening, nearly identical to the many expectations I latched onto each time I saw you.

But as opposed to finding you, I found myself outside a dying party with all of the gold glitter falling out of my hair and crashing into the ground.

I told one of your best friends how different my life has been since I walked out of your house that foggy morning, and that I have no clue what to do now.

You said one of my biggest flaws was that I was “all ying and no yang.”

My friends and I often laugh about it and reference the phrase over light-hearted conversations, but in reality you attacking my optimism was the most hurtful thing I have ever experienced.

Lately I’ve been insecure with the immense positivity I always identified myself with, and I long to now see the glass as dramatically less full and for my narrative to be a little more cynical.

Nowadays, when I shower people in compliments and dance freely above the sidewalk, I feel exposed and knowingly naive-so much that I catch myself wishing to stop following my bliss and to begin running away from it.

Your friend told me someday we might be able to sit down and to truly discuss how I ended up falling so infatuated with you, and why all of the signals of our demise shined with such haziness in my immediate vision.

But I know if we did, I would aim to envelop you in beautiful words in hopes you’d see me in the golden radiance I was always desperate to show you.

I would thank you for inspiring me to read more Ernest Hemingway novels and for teaching me how to better celebrate the friendships in my life, with the unapologetic pride of a fraternity brother waving a banner on a Florida beach.

You’d be credited with my reestablished ambition because every time you said you loved successful and enterprising women my eyes were better exposed to the opportunities available to me.

I also would probably cry about how much I miss you introducing me to Detroit rappers over my Spotify premium account and the way you would tug on my gigantic stuffed frog on my bed.

I would also scream at you for not valuing me enough, because everytime before you came over I’d dedicate hours to reapplying my makeup and super cleaning my bedroom-which all of my friends and former roommates know I rarely do.

Being a girl raised the wealthier and predominantly more conservative area of Metropolitan Detroit I was always told to stay away from the cultural boundary line of Eight Mile Rd., but I happily burned the stigma and drove down it just to see you.

But in reality, no number of Coney Island hot dogs, winter hideouts in Metroparks and use of the word “groovy” will ever resurrect this, despite how badly I wish it could.

So as I conclude this piece, I need to say goodbye to you, and run away from my desire to move mountains for you.

And to never, ever look back.