wristbands on the bedroom floor.

i picked a concert wristband up off of my bedroom floor, and a memory hit me like a freight train:

two concert wristbands on the floor by his bed, torn from the wrist and lazily thrown aside the night before after the chris young concert at the rodeo.

i asked him why there were two, and he replied he took one off for his sister.  but why were they in his room, if he walked past the trash can? for some reason my gut didn’t believe him, but my heart chose to.

another memory:

months earlier, lying in bed at his place, he tore a concert wristband off his wrist, reached over and tore mine off, too.  he threw them both on the floor, then wrapped his arms around me.  warm and safe, i fell asleep.


i have to keep reminding myself he never loved me.  even in the moments i think he did, i have to tell myself that those feelings i had aren’t true.  there was no intention on his part of the relationship.  there was never a chance for a happily-ever-after.  i was just another two year passage of time for him.  those are the feelings i’m left with.

he would tell me i hate him.  i used to say that i didn’t, but i’m not so sure that’s true.  hatred is such a strong, passionate word.  the older i get, the harder it is to produce that emotion.  but when i think of the time i could’ve spent getting to know someone else, someone who intended to be a partner, a best friend, a soul mate…i hate him for taking that from me.


in the moments i allow myself to wish and hope, i dream of a man who wants to go to concerts with me.  someone who gets lost in the music like i do.  someone who hears the poetry beyond the lyrics of a pretty song, in the moments of “i love yous” and sunday morning breakfasts with the radio on.  someone who won’t make me afraid to put pen to paper for fear that my pages and posts will fill with angry, hurt, vulnerable words and memories i’d much rather forget.

i’d rather forget you, than hate you.

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