you broke everything

I’m blaming you. I’m blaming everything on you, opening this idea in my head, or wherever, that love isn’t a singular path, that desire and friendship and love and all those things can be intertwined and indistinct and if she had touched him one more time I was going to take her fucking hand off.

His curls should have been mine to touch. Not hers. I shouldn’t be relegated to a touch on the shoulder or forearm. No.

[It's not fair. It's just not fair. Stop touching him. Just stop. It's just mean, you're just taunting me. It's not fair.]

I know I can’t have him, I know he’s not mine and will never be, and in fact the best thing in the world is waiting for me at home and I want to be there in his arms so much, to remind me how good it is, how much I don’t need the curls and the this and the that.