subject line: you told me


Sitting at the kitchen table

you told me that I felt like irony but I wasn’t sure what that meant. two years later, I still don’t understand what you mean, but now I know that you made shitty metaphors and I still get migraines, that you thought I reminded you of poetry but I’ve always preferred music, that you said that being around me felt like a shot of vodka when I’d rather be a rainstorm. you always liked metaphors, and I’ll always think that your symbolism was nothing real. you told me you’d stick with me forever, until God ends it all even though you knew I never believed in him. we were nothing but one of your made up metaphors, like my tea-drinking and your piano playing, my words and your colors, you and your love for my floral dresses but your hatred of everything real about me. I hope you found your symbols. I hope you found another girl who reminds you of a shot of vodka. I hope that if we meet again, I don’t feel like irony anymore.