It's intimate, it's inanimate: it's the story of a previous relationship.
This piece will give you an interesting angle from which to observe me and the other characters that populate my life. This piece is not meant (as much as it is) a bashing of my previous partner. Though I did find the process of writing this piece cathartic, documenting what I look back on as an unhealthy relationship also displays my own character in stark relief- a lighting that is unflattering to all involved. It's probably the scariest thing I've ever shared.
The Good Girl
I’m the kind of girl who won’t hurt you. The one you’ll probably think about when you describe real ex-girlfriends as toxic. You'll probably just call me crazy. I’m younger than you, which your ego enjoys, but publicly it embarrasses you. My friends tell me I am too good for you, and your friends even say the same to you. You begrudgingly accept my gifts, words, and company, but take my body as if it is yours to own. Push me up against the wall and beg me to say I’m yours, but god forbid someone think you could be mine. I am a late-night-text you can talk to, a side chick you can pretend to know through work. The kind of girl you leave over text message, but call for coffee every time you're back in town.
The first time we fuck it is on the caving couch in your old roommate’s house. I tell you between thrusts that I only called for a ride home. The truth is, I wanted a place to stay; freshly single and seeking arms to sleep in rather than a bed. It doesn't matter that I'd been picturing this for months. You'll tell me later you already knew.
I leave that night giddy and trying to keep my smile from my ears.
You go silent for days. I'll learn that you never text first. In person, you like to ask me questions, though you have a habit of changing the subject before I finish my answer. Soon I'll learn the answer you want to hear is just your own. When I ask the questions, you’re good at giving the answers you think I want to hear. We don’t mention your ex, though she calls you incessantly. I still don’t understand what she had against the cheap coffee you like, or why exactly you broke up.
Part of the problem, is this year actually. The worst year yet to play hard-to-get. We're all fucking depressed. I'll leave snacks on your porch. Leftover croissants, Danishes, and cinnamon rolls from the bakery, the only place that seemed to keep rolling when the world's standing still. I always bring leftovers. I know, it's too much (perhaps I am too much) but there’s always so much waste and I've never seen groceries at your place. If I didn’t have something tangible to give you how could I find an excuse to keep saying yes to your lack luster invitations.
Though they haven’t seen me in months, your friends do really like me. And when things reopen I find myself wondering why you won’t touch me, or meet my eyes when they’re around. That is, of course, aside from when you’re drunk. I’ll tell myself you are just embarrassed (because of that night in the kitchen) to be seen with me, although in truth you probably were before. I tell myself you’re too ashamed of your behavior to invite me. That you don’t invite me to parties because of the time you got plastered and tried to fuck me while everyone was waiting for our move in Catan. The real truth is that you didn’t invite me to parties long before that night.
I don’t remember if I told you or not, but you begged me to tell you I loved you that night. After all your friends left, ‘big proponents of getting laid’ they said, but we didn’t that night. You spent that night crying, and I spent it consoling a man who couldn’t hear me over his sobs. You begged me to say it over and over and I wonder if drunk-you thought I was someone else.
But your friends do like me. While you ignore my paint suggestions, your housemates are sending me swatches on Instagram. Also unlike you, they like my posts. It’s them who asks me to put out the bins when you're all are out of town, and they still invite me to game nights- though its you who always forget to tell me the time. I’ll pretend I've forgotten too when you text me come over after everyone is gone.
When we fuck, I leave bite marks on your shoulders, your arms, wrists, and sometimes in the meat of your thumb. I’ve tasted all of your fingers, and now most of mine. I’ve learned just how you like my back to arch and my hips to jut into yours. You call my body your God. I let you move me however you want and ask if there's anything really praise worthy about me. You sigh, meet my eyes, and your pupils dilate slightly. I smile and add, "Have you noticed how you can't say my name?" You push back sweat soaked curls and burry your face back into my throat.
I placate your controversial opinions on social issues, ignoring the fact that you take little action. My responses, belittled by my own sentiments, are practiced. Agree, fan-ego, gasp. Ask you to elaborate. It grows a bit boring listening to your two-dimensional view of all of society's problems, so I'll twist your words and sentence structure to support alternative, woefully offensive viewpoints instead. I think I enjoy watching you get worked up. When did you think I would find out you lied about your degree? Often, you are grossly biased and too lazy (or pessimistic) to try to make even the smallest of adjustments to your opinions. I indulge you in your arguments. Somehow I've fallen for my own fake laughter; ignoring each time you fail to meet my gaze in public, the slights to my intelligence, the way you won't use my name.
Would you prefer I fought with you? That I choke you back with ridicule over your ex’s controlling toxicity, ask you what role your own toxic masculinity had in creating the issues in the relationship.
Later, I'll wonder when I was supposed to start standing up for myself. When you yell at me for over-pouring your wine? Do you like me better with self-respect or when I swallow such thoughts and shrink into the corner. You won't like the answer your track record displays. You don’t notice that my arms and legs cross when you berate me. Or how my eyes go to the floor and I move away whenever you raise your voice. You are five inches taller than me and you’ve thrown me into bed enough times to know I am physically at your mercy. Though you have never purposefully hurt me, you do not notice that I am scared when your tone grows impatient. Over time I will grow meaner. Impish in my retorts that I quickly reframe as flirtatious; I’ve always made sure my criticism is given in sight of the back door. I read you messages, when I get them, from a boy I used to know. Tell you about what happened between us that night. How I shivered, cowering behind a large potted plant outside his building afterwards. I try to fake a laugh when you point out that I like being pinned down.
Your parents would probably like me. I’d know when to be cheeky with your dad, demure around your mother. I’m white, and mind my P's and Q's. A pleasantly American blend of confidence and the palpable insecurity that our society has ingrained in me. I’m thin, but not anorexic; my hair is wavy, neither curly nor rigidly straight. My eyes are big and wide, giving off the impression of innocence, but the symmetry is slightly mismatched. I’m pretty, but not beautiful enough to be a threat.
I’d be smart enough to keep up with the playful banter at the family dinner table. Pretend that you aren’t feeling up my leg, just as I have on so many nights with your friends. It’ll probably turn you on as I keep pace, verbally sparring with your father and brother while your hand is moving underneath my skirt. They’ll be impressed that I’m going to Oxford in the fall, and won’t question what will happen between us because this is all hypothetical and I’ll never meet them, they'll never even have a chance to question our non-existent relationship status.
It bothers me that you never read my poems, but I'm not the kind of girl that tells you so. I'm the girl who won’t ever hurt you. The one you’ll probably miss, but never mention to anyone. If she's never mentioned, did this girl ever exist at all? You don’t want anyone serious until you find someone you’re serious about, and that’s never going to be me.
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