1. My last name. I only learned yours because I saw your work I.D. and key card inside your truck when you were dropping me off home one morning. My full name need not matter when I was just a place with a view you could visit to get off.
2. That night I bit into your shoulder, you pulled out a t-shirt from your dresser for me, got into bed, wrapped your arms around my waist and pulled me in close to you. If you had asked if I wanted to stay, I would have told you no. I would have told you I’d like to get home. If you had asked me if I was comfortable, I would have told you I didn’t feel like being held. The truth is, I was too drunk to go anywhere, too exhausted and indifferent to move, too sad for it to matter. So, I let you hold me all through the night, and each time I woke up with your limbs blanketing mine, I played make believe you were him.
3. When you found out I was a writer and that I wrote poetry you said, “So you’re like Shakespeare writing sonnets and shit.” If you would have asked me what and why I write, I would have told you I’d never written a sonnet in my life. That I wrote about the darkest parts of life, about the ugly side of love, that I wrote about everything that hurt, but not enough to kill me. I would have told you that I wrote instead of leaving behind a suicide note. I would have told you writing is the only way I cope. That I’m better at it than I am at speaking. I would have told you I wrote things you couldn’t understand. It wouldn’t have mattered, because in that moment I would have ceased to be a warm body for your wants, you never would’ve been turned on if you had to see the person. You may have never heard me, anyway.
4. You ordered me some awfully sweet mixed shot that night at Bovine & Barley that made me want to vomit. If you had asked me what I liked, I would have told you I was more of a tequila kind of girl. It didn’t matter when I was going to end up in your bed, loosened up and liquored up, anyway.
5. I told you I was having a bad day when you were trying to get me to come over once. Typically and boringly predictable, you said you knew what would make me feel better. As if your hard dick would be what would magically cure me of my depression, the answer to all of my worries, better than the fucking Klonopin I was already taking. In typical fashion, I came over, anyway. I was feeling empty, might as well let something crawl inside my body. Might as well take you out for a ride, see if it awakened any kind of feeling. I was always dirtiest and most fun when I was feeling numb. I walked in, you didn’t ask me what was wrong, didn’t as if I was okay, didn’t ask what was on my mind. I was so lonely, so broken down, I would have told you that in that moment you looked sharp enough to be a substitute for a single-edge razor blade. I would have been honest. I would have told you I wasn’t fine, that I wouldn’t mind just a little company. But all you said when I walked in was, “You’re so fucking hot.” And just like that, I was on my knees. And just like that, moments later, splayed out on your table. I lied when it was over and you asked me if I felt better. If you would have seen the tears behind my eyes threatening to make their way into the world, if you would have asked me if I was sure, I would have asked you to hold me just for a little while.
6. After all those months, if you would have asked me to dinner, I would have said yes.
7. Some Spanish slipped out once when I meant to tell you to go harder in English. You didn’t know where that came from. You have no idea I was a fluent speaker. If you had asked me, I would have told you all about how it was my first language. I would have told you how I grew up being sent to Mexico every summer. How it was important to my parents that I never lose my heritage. Even after that slip, you never asked. All you told me was you wanted to hear more Spanish when you were fucking me.
8. During Hurricane Harvey you texted me saying I should walk to your place so we could keep each other company. I know what you actually wanted. You didn’t ask if I was okay, if there had been any water in our apartment. You also knew I was born and raised in Houston, didn’t bother asking about my family’s home. If you had, I would have told you I wasn’t even in town, that I was in Austin, I would have told you to stay safe and thanked you for checking.
9. I woke up to 3 a.m. text a few months after things ended, or fizzled, or whatever the correct term is for something that was never really a thing, telling me to come outside because you were outside the gate to my place. If you had asked me how I’d been even once during that time, you would have known I didn’t live there anymore.
10. A few weeks ago, you texted me to tell me hey, tell me all about your promotion at work, how you have been up north working on a project for a few months, telling me you want to see me when you’re back in the city, telling me you’ll be back in February or March. I told you I was happy things were going well for you. I told you to take care. I left it at that. You didn’t ask what I have been up to, what I was doing. If you had, I would have told you I wasn’t filling up empty nights with men that can only see me as a vessel for their pleasure anymore. When you texted again, I didn’t reply. The truth is, when it comes to us, there’s never really been anything to say. And I could bet anything you still don’t know the last name of the girl you fucked for most of 2017.
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