After listening to “the weekend” more than enough times, I felt compelled to revisit the hour (see: summer) I dubbed “not my finest.” It was a Saturday night, it was 2am, and the Monday-Friday had been contracted for overtime. My pride wouldn’t allow me to shoot the text, but my mind wouldn’t rest.
my stomach hurts. okay, "hurt" might be the wrong word but it feels unsettled. "we told you so." "I mean..." "well...." when you've been smart your entire life it's hard watching yourself morph into the stupid friend. it's so hard to see each misstep & be unable to step in, to change how you feel, to will your emotions into extinction. "I'm special too" is what you tell yourself to feel better, you pretend to forget that moral victories only exist amongst minor league coaches, but you have good intentions, right? so there's no way you could be one of the others. you say what you need to escape reality's harshness & so far, you've been quite successful. "I'm out with my girl." & no, that's not you. & yes, your FaceTime will go ignored. & yes, he will pull up to your job. & yes, he will find a way to make you laugh because that is what he does. until today you forgot she even existed, you forgot about what she could be, you forgot about wondering what she was like. it's easier that way, you know, it helps with the guilt. today that is not the case. today you are not merely two star-crossed lovers. today he is in love. today the scales of everything & nothing have tipped like never before. today you did not win. today you are reminded.