In response to being called a slut.
No. You don’t get to call me that.
You are the very last person on this planet who is allowed to call me that.
I spent 3 years of my life dedicated to you.
Remember that day we were supposed to meet at lunch junior year and talk?
All I wanted to do was fucking talk to you.
Because I wanted to tell you that.
I wanted to finally be done with the fighting and the confusion and the damn guilt that you always dumped on me.
I wanted for us to be happy.
You stood me up and time went on and you pretended like nothing ever happened and all I could do was be pulled along, following your lead.
And then you started bragging about the girls you would “hookup” with.
FYI making out doesn’t constitute as hooking up you over-exaggerating asswipe.
And how you got a girlfriend who none of us ever met, and had no filter when you talked about her in front of me.
That was all fine and dandy; just because you finally got over me and I was still pining after you was no reason for me to be mad at you.
But then, a year and a half after everything I finally found a guy I could spend time with and laugh with and finally forget about you momentarily.
And I felt alive; to be the center of one person’s entire universe is a drug that no pharmaceutical company could ever recreate.
You didn’t like him, but you never gave me much of a reason for it.
But it sure as hell got your attention, and I was part of your world again.
But your world involved inviting me over to your house after school to hang out and me lying to him, because he liked you just as much as you liked him.
He never got mad at me for hanging out with you or talking to you or pretty much any of the shit that you pulled.
And that was the difference between you and him.
Because the day I told you that I was going out with him, you tore me apart.
Telling me that it was a stupid decision and how I didn’t even think about it.
Telling me that I don’t really like him, that he and I would never work, that I was lying to myself and how you couldn’t be there and support me.
You remember what I did next?
I started crying and begging you.
Telling you that I need you in my life that I could not deal with losing you.
That my entire being would fall apart with you.
And like a seed sown, your words started getting under my skin and I just held on harder to him, telling him I loved him (I didn’t) because that is what he wanted, and I thought he needed, to hear.
And slowly, oh so slowly, and then all at once I realized I was lying to myself and I couldn’t do that.
It was pulling me apart on the inside and it wasn’t just because I was lying to myself but, even worse, I was lying to him.
Pretending that I loved him.
Do not get me wrong I cared for him and I wanted to be with him but he loved me more than I liked him and I couldn’t do it any longer.
And you couldn’t have been happier when I told you, not even an hour after.
You never even asked if I was okay.
And of course I wasn’t because even if I didn’t love him, it didn’t mean that I was torn apart inside.
I had a panic attack that night alone in my room, and I never told anyone.
And you went to prom with someone else, as friends, and I went with someone else, as friends, but she liked you so much and I couldn’t help but be jealous, even though your feelings were completely platonic and she did not know our story.
That night, at the after party, I kissed my best friend to try and get a reaction out of you, but you had already fallen asleep.
And that summer, that summer was a whirlwind because after that we had college and you were going to Arizona and I was moving to the city and our best friends were going hours away.
The night that I realized that my best friends were going away I called him again and we almost hooked up in the back of my car, I was 18 he was 15.
The next time I saw you it was thanksgiving break and we finally all found time between family and airplane flights and road trips to see each other.
We all got together at someone’s house and it felt perfect.
I always thought that one of our best talents was pretending that it hadn’t been months between seeing each other, that no time had passed and nothing ever changed.
I used to pride ourselves on that ability, because it always put off the feeling of any of it being real.
It was a game or one of the books I got sucked into where I was just a visitor in this universe where everything was tumultuous.
And again everything was fine and perfect and then you had to open your big fat mouth and ruin it.
Because you had just come back from college and of course you had to rush a fraternity, and brag about the girls that you brought back to your room to the rest of the guys.
The thing is you always thought that I had sex with him, but I didn’t.
So no you don’t get to call me a slut.
You will never get to call me that.
Not because it’s actually definitively not true.
I could really care less what people call me and say about me.
But because you lost all of your rights of defining me that day when you didn’t show up.
You lost all your rights over me when you continue to break my heart.
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