It’s my birthday and I’m really fucking mad at you. I guess it’s me, really. I’m mad at myself. I don’t know why I looked at my phone, at Facebook, expecting something. Just a small acknowledgement. Anything, really. A simple “happy birthday” would have done it, the kind of thing acquaintances send, the girl I sat next to in Biology class 4 years ago, Sephora emails. Saying “happy birthday” is about as basic as it gets.
I guess I expected something that reassured me I was still a thought somewhere in your mind. That you remember me. That I was important. But instead, it’s as if I wasn’t ever in your bed this summer, that you never caressed my face with your rough fingertips. How you told me you loved me. Platonically. Okay. Right. Right. We were only ever just friends. But you kissed me and sucked…
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