“because i’m a fucking hopeful person–”
& he cut me off with that “wowww-i-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that” condescending laugh.
“hopeful?? HOPEFUL?? that’s the LAST word i’d use to describe you. i’d use quite the opposite word actually.”
that should’ve been an obvious sign to hang up the phone.
pleading with someone who knows me so little
for all our time together
means he’ll never understand.
but that’s the thing
i wanted the impossible.
i constantly wage wars against my self doubts & inner judges
& let the smallest glimmers of hope consume me
a slight inflection in your voice
an open-ended text
a possibility of you aligning your day to mine because my flight gets in early enough type thing
instead of it being that flickering small guiding light in the night sky
it becomes my sun.
my morning,
my focus,
my warm obsession to get through the night.
what you saw,
in the three years,
was me bridling my hope. constantly.
because i measured what you could give
& what i could ask for
& found painting my night sky orange
was just too devastating when you’d change it back to black.
so i set my sights lower
& only placed my hope on bets i knew i could win.
THAT is why i’m not a “fucking hopeful person”
… to you.
