There’s a space between blissful crushing and being over him. It’s grey and kind of numb, but mostly sad. There’s a grieving. Not for him. No, thank god it wasn’t him! Thank god that it didn’t workout. It’s sad because my stomach misses the flips it did at the sight of him. Imaginary light bulbs once glowed when he grinned and now, they’re burnt out.
In these times, I contemplate striking a match against a burnt-out not-quite relationship. I hold it in my hands the way he never held them. I think about all the times he hurt me. How rarely he knew he was doing it, and how l, feigning the cool-ness I don’t have, never spoke up. I think about how it was more of a crash than a crush, and I ask myself– is he worth bleeding for?
He isn’t. If he puts you in the position of sacrifice, he is never worth it