I wonder if you know that you’ll leave me. That you’re a child with a short attention span and I require a lot of time you will not be willing to put in. You’ll meet a girl with longer hair and a smaller body. She will not have violent secrets and a loyalty to anyone who treats her well for three minutes. She will not attach herself as easily as I always seem to and her eyes will be dry if you leave before she falls asleep.

She will be stronger than me as I ease myself back into Friday nights with friends that hardly notice I’m not talking, and boys who can’t spell my last name. I have chased off every fool who has dreamed of being my forever. I have ruined more people than I am willing to admit.

You thought it was romantic to be with the girl who wrote books and who seemed to understand human sadness because she wrote so flawlessly about her own. You found it cute when bits of yourself were found in the characters I treated like real people. But when I arrive at your doorstep, teary eyed in baggy clothes, attempting to find a bit of solace in your touch, you won’t answer the door. Instead, you’ll tell me to leave, that you don’t have to take care of a girl who would do anything for you.

I’m sorry that I’m giving you all of these expectations, maybe you’ll leave sooner or long after. Maybe you’ll deal with me longer than I expect. But this has happened so many times before. I’d like to think you’re different but it’s impossible to hope for a difference when hoping just makes it hurt more when you’re wrong.