there’s a difference between a man who sends you flowers for you and a man who sends them to be able to say he did. to say, “look how good i am. isn’t she lucky?” as if flowers carry the same weight as sleeping with that girl you know – the one who looks for love in DMs and double taps and thinks self love is found in the comments of a thirst trap. and in an apartment still filled with your things. the one thing he asked you not to do. the one thing you didn’t think you’d have to ask because being together for five years felt like enough of a reason to warrant mutual respect. to ask one week later if you want the comforter he laid her down on as if you should be lucky he was generous enough to offer. a momento to remind you that you made the right choice.
and when you’re done throwing up, and boxing up your things that they left thrown about the bedroom, and moving your boxes into a uhaul, and cutting up every “us” thing you lay eyes on, and figuring out where you and your dog will sleep that night, for a split second you pity them both. because this reminds you of the way you too boiled yourself down to nothing for his satisfaction; how so much of that is the reason you could never go back and so much of the reason he needs you to. you spent six years telling yourself you were the exception, but in hindsight you see you’re part of a pattern. a habit he claims not to have. a burden you no longer have to bear.