You’re a good guy. You’re the best guy I know, but maybe that’s because I don’t really know you yet. I don’t know your ugly side. I haven’t seen the way your mouth snarls in anger, or the crusty drool on your cheek in the early morning. We’re in that beginning stage right now, and you’ve put your best foot forward.
You’re a good guy. Everyone says so. You’re kind, funny, and the teeniest bit shy. If I manage to crack open that shell, I know you’ll be the sweetest ever. Everyone insists you’ll be much better for me than my ex. You’ll treat me the way I deserve to be treated, and cherish me.
You’re so, so good. You’re safe. You’re the right choice. I can see everything that will ever happen. I can see shy kisses, quiet “I love you”s, inside jokes. I can see appreciation, adoration, acceptance–you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.
But I don’t want it.
I don’t want you in my bed, and I don’t want to be in yours. I don’t want your lip stains on my dishes, and I don’t want you to help me bring my luggage up the stairs. I don’t want my head on your shoulder or your shirt in my closet. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want you and me, and I don’t know if I’ll ever want those things.
Am I jaded? Am I broken? Am I still hung up on my past? Maybe. Maybe I’m all of those things, or maybe I’m none. I’m just tired. I’m tired of giving and giving. I had given until I had nothing left, but he still left me. Maybe it is about the past, but most importantly, it’s about me.
This is me: selfish me. I don’t want you. I don’t want any of you. I want me. Me. I want to wake up, breathing in 4am air and stretching freely along the length of my twin-sized mattress. I want no make up weeks and an ice cream tub to myself. I want a rainy day and a good book. I don’t see any room for your hand in mine when I’m holding a warm mug of coffee.
Maybe one day this will change, and I’ll want to love someone more than I love myself. But that’s not today, and I’m sorry. It’s not you.
It’s me.