This weekend, I am inexplicably frustrated with JKm.
I can see that’s unreasonable. I can see that it’s toxic.
Sitting in a Mexican restaurant waiting for his food because he was hungry, even though we were going out with my friends in an hour to eat, I being visibly exhausted, he scrolling through sports on his phone and not hearing my comments.
Coming out of the bathroom at the festival and he comes up to me and just asks for his ticket and one for his friend when I remind him that I only had his ticket.
His friends, with their inside jokes while MH sat in the car and read on her phone, utterly excluded from the conversation.
His ridiculous views on the controversial art placed on our school’s campus.
I’m tired, right in the heat of a debate that I truly care about, that affects me personally, that he just couldn’t stay awake for.
Are you crying? What are you crying about? he asks. Harlem, I say. I want him to ask. I want to tell him the story of why I’m crying, but there is no follow up. He turns over. He goes to sleep. I cry alone next to him.
Are you wearing the same shorts as yesterday? he asks, appalled. Am I too dirty? Am I not conforming to your standards enough?
Ignoring my signals that I don’t want sex, caressing my breasts and clit.
What would we do if I didn’t go to the event? As if he was choosing whether what I had planned was worthy of doing when there were better options around.
I might stay an extra night if I’m too tired to drive home, as if he was just letting me know so that my dorm could act as a motel for another night.
Not noticing that I was upset as we walked behind my friends in silence. Frustratingly oblivious, rambling on about some movie.
Why not just text it to yourself, he mutters. I almost miss it, but the tone stings me and instead of screenshotting the song I want to remember for later, I pick up my phone and text it to myself and keep my head down and keep quiet.
Emptiness when I hold his hand, when I kiss him, when we talk.