Dear Mr. Wrong,
I met you the day I learned to love myself,
so I assumed I was ready to love another person.
I thought, "His eyes are brown, but not the boring kind."
I thought, "His jokes are funny, but not the offensive kind."
I thought, "He looks like he could love me,
and I think I could love him, too."
We spent that night dancing like two crazy people.
For the first time, I learned to let go and just be myself,
to embrace the fact that my feet don't move like I want them to
and my voice does indeed crack when I yell at the top of my range.
You came to my house, and we stayed up till 3am just talking.
We teased each other and flossed our teeth and fell asleep
watching a movie you assured me was a good one.
(There was too much killing in it for my taste, though.)
When you left the next day, you pulled me to your chest
and said we would keep in touch, like all friends do,
so ten minutes after you pulled out of my driveway,
I sent you a message: "I miss you already."
You sent a picture of you smiling,
and I thought about saving it so I could look at it later,
so I could absorb your goofy grin like rays of sun
and maybe feel like I could do anything.
It was not long till you asked me to hang out
when I was visiting your city. You ordered tea for me,
and we went for a walk around a furniture store,
and I kept hoping you would kiss my cheek.
I went home and wondered why you didn't.
You stopped texting me last Saturday,
marking the first time in a long time I felt that pang of
"Oh God, why am I so annoying?"
I wish I could tell you that.
So, all this taught me that maybe the day we met
I wasn't all the way to loving myself yet,
that I've got a long way to go before
I love the way I ramble or laugh or look.
But you told me you loved the way I told stories.
No one ever did that before; you made me see
that I love how I tell them, too.
So congratulations. Now, you are one.
the girl who was too much for you