Thahabu

I don’t think I’ll ever stop regretting you. I only said yes to becoming your girlfriend because I thought my feelings for you would grow. I kind of thought you could make me feel human. But my feelings didn’t grow, they stayed the same, meaning I still just thought you were a nice boy and that’s all there was to you. Your lips felt like gelid wet sausages trying to absorb my energy and personality for your own gain. It turned me off. I let you a quarter of a millimeter in because I thought it would make me like you if you reacted the right way. You didn’t.

Instead, you thought my many issues—issues you admitted you could never understand—made me “interesting,” and you liked the fact that I was “dark.” You even said that you were initially enthralled by the idea of me; it made you feel like you were dating a character in a John Green novel or something.

I am not an idea or cool jaded YA book character. I am Thahabu. My feelings about death, the spirits, my pain, loss, and deformity are not part of some movie script. They are not “interesting” or “deep.” They are my fucking pain and that is not to be admired.

You always told me how strong you thought I was. I never said thank you because I already knew that. Everyone tells me that. My body and mind have endured so much, I know I’m very resilient, but I’m fed up with being told I’m strong. Being strong is tiring. What I wanted you to say was it’s gonna be OK, and it’s OK if I’m sad about the shit I’ve survived, it’s OK to be a girl who thinks about her dead mom every day, but forgets Mother’s Day every year.

I wanted to be weak, but I was just a character to you, and you were just my immature mistake. I regret you and the time I wasted on you. We ended on good terms and you still wanted to be friends. I said we could be. I lied. I am a harsh woman with a big warm heart and looks that could make a dead man smile; and you are just a child too busy running away from your problems, and living off your mom’s sweat and money. ♦