strawberry

Your mom in the suburbs has only the plan to try the new Wendy’s frosty flavor to look forward to. Strawberry and artificial sweetener to get her through the week. She does not know how sad you are, how desperately you seek belonging. How you told me you loved me on a cement staircase walking home from a Michelin-star dinner even though we had only known each other for 10 days. She would have been disappointed at my response, questioning your motives and demanding you provide a definition for your concept of love. She has no idea you tried to kill yourself twice last year. You told me as I was about to get in the car for the airport, leaving you for good. When I planned on never speaking to you again, you texted that you were in the emergency room instead of telling your mom. I feared the worst and wished I had sent you that list of therapists we talked about compiling. Instead, I found out you called 911 on yourself after a bender with too much cocaine and too little sleep. If you loved me you wouldn’t have ignored me when I told you about my family, checking your phone in between confessions of childhood secrets. If you loved me you wouldn’t have turned every conversation into one about you, always tweaking the stage lighting and making sure it favors your contours. When I told you I was overwhelmed, instead of checking in with me you sent me various headshots, seeking my advice on which should be plastered on promotional posters for your Instagram feed. I almost blocked your number. Because of you, I hate the look of anyone wearing aviator-shaped sunglasses and Patagonia vests.