chooseloveoverfear:

A Bird Just Flies… Track of The Day!

Day 8: To The Bitch Who Stole My Girlfriend

To the bitch who stole my girlfriend:
Fuck you.
Seriously though, I am writing you your own poem, not because you’ve earned it, but because karma is a little too slow for my taste. Emily, right? Can I call you Emily? I remember the first time she talked about you, said you were cool, hesitated to show me your picture though, tripped over herself to say “she’s nice… but not that cute.” Ouch. Don’t think I didn’t know then. When you spend enough time pressing someone’s heart to yours, you memorize the sound of it thumping, can hear it like your name whispered across a crowded room. I wonder if you know that her heart has always said my name. I told her I was glad she’d found a friend, encouraged her to meet you when she was afraid, offered my support like a lighthouse through my invisible storm, because she needed to learn her own lessons. 

Couldn’t help myself from looking into you though, spent enough time on your facebook and your blog to find a reason to be impressed if there was one, or maybe I just have my standards set firmly above average. Your words were “I study brains and disorders and they are more fascinating than you,” and when you learn that a brain is a mind, is a person, is a life, maybe you’ll figure out that you can’t find humility in a CAT scan. Knowing how something works but not knowing its worth is ignorance, and this world doesn’t need any more people who can tell you all the things that are wrong with you but can’t respect your humanity.

The day I met you I wanted to feel bad about myself, wanted to try to see in your face what she saw, kept trying to make it hurt but I… couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I might have been more threatened if you could say hello without stumbling, could hold a conversation, shook my hand with any semblance of a character, or maybe it’s because… well I hate to ruin the mystery, but she can tell you where my hand was that morning. She told me how badly your hands wanted to touch her, she told me when she let you kiss her. Swallowed enough liquor to make herself sick just so she could face me, then told me “eh, it was okay, not magical like our first kiss.”

I would be lying if I said I didn’t laugh when she told me you said you could love her so much better. I don’t have to know you to know you thought you had her, got cocky a little too soon and started talking shit. I am not fighter, and I laughed again to know you said you could kick my ass. Drive your incompetence into my gut as hard as you can until you find something close to respect, because I feel just fine.

You didn’t deserve this poem, and that’s why I’m writing it for me. Because I can weave a noose for your arrogance with the tip of my tongue, braid my vengeance into a double helix of dignity, and collapse every chance you ever had of hurting me like sediment, into something solid: my own self worth. So fuck you.

I wrote this before she came back, but I would have told you before that even if she had ever let you touch her, you’d just be getting your unworthy fingerprints on a glass window through which you looked at a woman who loves me. Understand that she walked back, stood confidently, came to me with her pride in tact, because I would have never made her crawl, because I would have never gone out my way to make her feel small, like you did. I feel bad for you, because I don’t think you knew what you were getting into, and I hope someday, you love someone the way I love her, and you have to let her go, because maybe then you’ll back the fuck off when you hear the word “girlfriend.”

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