I Wouldn’t Call This A Love Letter
by: Megan Kuhnel
Contents
Trade Off
An Ode To Being The Bitter Ex
Future
Trade Off
I took one step outside the door
and saw you coming down the hill;
You were trying not to stumble
and I was trying to look
like I had not been crying.
We met in the middle.
I looked up, saw you and smiled.
Why did I smile?
I still ask myself this question.
We had barely spoken in months,
not since the night I’d texted you
at 2am with an album
that I thought you’d like. You still
consumed my thoughts. I wanted to
get rid of your possessions so
badly, I practically begged you to
retrieve them. The large box of
sweaters, tiny trinkets, and broken
promises weighing me down.
I can carry it, I said,
bringing it to your car so our
hands wouldn’t touch in the trade off. You placed your box on the ground and I quickly picked it up, I
couldn’t look at your face. That face that I once loved to stare at
early in the morning while you slept.
We can get coffee and talk,
you offered, but we both knew we
never would follow through. I
nodded quietly and ran back
inside,watching you from the
window like I always used to.
Waiting for you to pull away
but secretly hoping you’d find a reason to stay.
An Ode To Being The Bitter Ex
They call me The Bitter Ex.
The 2am texter,
Facebook blocker,
Instagram stalker.
You sent me so many red flags
I could’ve sewn myself a sweater,
Instead of always asking for yours.
When you offer, “We can still be friends”
I laugh
loud, and for a long time.
They call me The Bitter Ex.
The one who gave back every single thing you ever gave me
Every sweater, love letter, and necklace
And told you that you were lucky I didn’t burn it first.
I post quotes about “healing” and “positivity”
And then run our prom photos through the shredder.
The only closure I crave is your new girlfriend stalking my Instagram profile
and accidentally liking a photo from 84 weeks ago.
They call me The Bitter Ex.
The “Hot Girl Summer”,
hair cut shorter and dyed blonder,
resting bitch face,
Let me post another selfie.
Watch me document my happiness
Like I have something to prove.
Until I’m so happy you unfollow me.
Yes, your mother still texts me.
She says “How are you?”
She says “I miss you”
She says “I’m sorry.”
She lives in the bliss of not knowing what
Her son did to me.
They call me The Bitter Ex and I wear the name like a crown.
I parade down the sidewalk waving at any
Man who dares to make eye contact with me.
You would be crowned The Bitter Ex too,
If what happened to me happened to you.
Future
One day I will run into you
at the supermarket, or
at our high school reunion.
You’ll be running in
one direction and I’ll be
wandering in another--time
was never our friend. When we say
hello I will know not to mistake
my anxiety for butterflies.
You will ask to grab coffee before I
leave town and I will surprise myself, saying yes.
And we actually will follow through.
You will sit across from me
at the wobbliest table in the cafe,
Where we sat many times and many years ago.
Our initials will still be carved
into the dark stained wood of the table top.
I take note that you have upgraded from frappachino to macchiato,
While I will still drink the same latte I ordered every day in college.
We will cover all the bases
How are you?
How’s your mom? Your brother? My sister?
How’s life?
What’s new?
Are you happy? Are you really happy?
We will talk for hours, condensing years of silence and Facebook status updates into simple summaries.
We will not talk about our breakup.
We will both be in good places.
We will both refuse to admit
we’ve asked ourselves
“What if?”
by: Megan Kuhnel
Contents
Trade Off
An Ode To Being The Bitter Ex
Future
Trade Off
I took one step outside the door
and saw you coming down the hill;
You were trying not to stumble
and I was trying to look
like I had not been crying.
We met in the middle.
I looked up, saw you and smiled.
Why did I smile?
I still ask myself this question.
We had barely spoken in months,
not since the night I’d texted you
at 2am with an album
that I thought you’d like. You still
consumed my thoughts. I wanted to
get rid of your possessions so
badly, I practically begged you to
retrieve them. The large box of
sweaters, tiny trinkets, and broken
promises weighing me down.
I can carry it, I said,
bringing it to your car so our
hands wouldn’t touch in the trade off. You placed your box on the ground and I quickly picked it up, I
couldn’t look at your face. That face that I once loved to stare at
early in the morning while you slept.
We can get coffee and talk,
you offered, but we both knew we
never would follow through. I
nodded quietly and ran back
inside,watching you from the
window like I always used to.
Waiting for you to pull away
but secretly hoping you’d find a reason to stay.
An Ode To Being The Bitter Ex
They call me The Bitter Ex.
The 2am texter,
Facebook blocker,
Instagram stalker.
You sent me so many red flags
I could’ve sewn myself a sweater,
Instead of always asking for yours.
When you offer, “We can still be friends”
I laugh
loud, and for a long time.
They call me The Bitter Ex.
The one who gave back every single thing you ever gave me
Every sweater, love letter, and necklace
And told you that you were lucky I didn’t burn it first.
I post quotes about “healing” and “positivity”
And then run our prom photos through the shredder.
The only closure I crave is your new girlfriend stalking my Instagram profile
and accidentally liking a photo from 84 weeks ago.
They call me The Bitter Ex.
The “Hot Girl Summer”,
hair cut shorter and dyed blonder,
resting bitch face,
Let me post another selfie.
Watch me document my happiness
Like I have something to prove.
Until I’m so happy you unfollow me.
Yes, your mother still texts me.
She says “How are you?”
She says “I miss you”
She says “I’m sorry.”
She lives in the bliss of not knowing what
Her son did to me.
They call me The Bitter Ex and I wear the name like a crown.
I parade down the sidewalk waving at any
Man who dares to make eye contact with me.
You would be crowned The Bitter Ex too,
If what happened to me happened to you.
Future
One day I will run into you
at the supermarket, or
at our high school reunion.
You’ll be running in
one direction and I’ll be
wandering in another--time
was never our friend. When we say
hello I will know not to mistake
my anxiety for butterflies.
You will ask to grab coffee before I
leave town and I will surprise myself, saying yes.
And we actually will follow through.
You will sit across from me
at the wobbliest table in the cafe,
Where we sat many times and many years ago.
Our initials will still be carved
into the dark stained wood of the table top.
I take note that you have upgraded from frappachino to macchiato,
While I will still drink the same latte I ordered every day in college.
We will cover all the bases
How are you?
How’s your mom? Your brother? My sister?
How’s life?
What’s new?
Are you happy? Are you really happy?
We will talk for hours, condensing years of silence and Facebook status updates into simple summaries.
We will not talk about our breakup.
We will both be in good places.
We will both refuse to admit
we’ve asked ourselves
“What if?”