Three times. Three heartaches.

The first time. He is as small as I am, but with Big Boy Hands. You and I are rough, painful, hurting, yelling, hateful passion, and you tell me later that you needed him. I am Not Good Enough to keep you happy, and because of the way we fight you need your stability, you need your pheromone-hormone-testosterone boy, and you don’t need me - you need him. We still have times where I make you grin and you fall into my arms, but these are few and far between.

But you come back to me.


The second time. He is not good. He is not Good. He’s the kind of guy to take a girl, get in her pants, and dump her off the side of a busy highway later that night. He’s a bastard and I could beat him up any day. You’re just baggage to him – hot, beautiful baggage. We are still fighting, painful, hurting and you take a break with me to be with him.

I eat lunch in the stairwells alone, tears soaking into my food, homemade salt, and you both touch bodies and hearts. (Your heart touches his, I should say.)

You leave, again, back for me. Back for more. I take you back, you are mine again, at least for a little while, and somehow we are not the fighting girls that we used to be. We grew up.


The third time. We are perfect. You tell me that we are, so many times. You tell me I’m the Perfect Girlfriend and that the marriage gods are confused as to why we aren’t already married. I smile and tell you how good you are. How much I adore you. Why I think you’re so special - know you're so special. We stay up all night talking about love, marriage… us. You tell me what you need and I give. We are warmth and hot, blazing heat.

But it’s not enough. Though we are Perfect, we are not enough, and you leave me. For how long? An hour? Two? Three? Four? You leave me for hours and come back to find me in bed, mascara smeared under my eyes from angst and worry. You tell me, hand on my jaw, vulnerable and quiet. You show me it wasn’t his fault, you show me it wasn’t yours, but what am I left with? Perfect isn’t enough. Fighting wasn’t enough. We are hot, blazing heat, and the comfort of curled up by a fireplace... and you need more, sometimes.

You tell me you don’t like it. You don’t like to leave, you like the time when you’re with him and you don’t like that you have to feel this way. And I know you don’t. I see it in your beautiful, beautiful green eyes when you whisper this to me in that quiet morning light. It reflects off your eyes and they sparkle, and little orbs of tears accumulate in each of the inner corners. You don’t want this, and I want to take it off of you. I yearn to take this off you and give you simple. To give you me, and have that always be enough.

I’m the girl in the background, who sometimes gets left behind. I can tie you up, make you scream and moan and cry out. Isn’t it enough to make you moan? Isn’t it enough to make you safe? Isn’t it enough to be as perfect to you as a person can get?

But here’s the answer. The answer that I repeat, mantra mantra mantra, and I spin it around in my brain in little winding circles until it coats all the walls. I know you don’t want this. I’m just so sick of the tragedy. Of the depression that comes with each him.


Let me tell you this. She has scars. Emotionally, in the little places you don't expect, and on her soft, warm porcelain skin. There's one on her knee that I especially love. It has this beautiful curve to it, almost a stretched-down part oval, part heart. I think her scars are beautiful. Would you love her scars the way I do? Would you give them extra attention when you kiss down her body? Would you mean it?

I just want her to be mine. I’m so tired of sharing.