I wanted to stomp out of the room and slam the door behind me– to be disgustingly dramatic and Disney-channel like. He would hate it, me, if I did. I couldn’t afford to lose his complete love and interest. That was the only thing keeping me from standing up to both, metaphorically and figuratively, shut him out of my life. So I remained there on his undone bed where only a few hours ago we had sex, the kind of sex that is so utterly intense that neither of us knew whether the passion came from deep-rooted hatred or something much more beautiful. Yet, despite the moments like those when we lost ourselves in the sweat and skin of one another and the sound of each other’s heavy breathing, we always ended up like this. Me, covered only by his t-shirt and a bed sheet I’d spread over my lap, and he, in his Hanes boxers standing with his palm pressed irritably into his forehead–fighting. Fighting because after sex he would whisper, “I love you.” Fighting because I’d reply by poking his cheek and replying, “Love is a social construct.” Fighting because I am confusing and hurt him because I never say it back to him, even after eight months of being together. Fighting because he wanted to break down walls that 24 years of a shitty life built, not around my heart, but around my soul. But he couldn’t understand that. I wasn’t a person. I was a ghost of a person.
— Don’t Read Me