I could definitely live without you.
And listen, I know that’s not exactly the most
romantic way to start this off. But we’re not ones
for bullshit-packaged-into-something-pretty
anyways. We like our honesty of the brutal variety,
the kind of truthfulness that can sometimes hurt.
The realness that can sting.
We’re not trying to be one of my adolescent diary
entries. And frankly, I’m relieved.
You and I, we’re not into pretending for the sake of
ease. We don’t want the right answers. We’re not
looking to say what the other just wants to hear.
Our pasts have been littered with far too much of
that. We know bullshit still smells, no matter how
hard you try to disguise it with potpourri.
I’m not going to lace this with flowery shit just
because it might sound nice. Lots of things sound
nice. Broken promises sound nice. Pre-breaking.
The stuff right before the falling and cracking
glasses. We can convince ourselves anything is
lovely, if we just sip on the Kool Aid a little longer.
We can stay high on the delusion just one more
night. Feed us those pretty lies, we’ll down them
with a voracity.
But I don’t want to do that with you. And, I hope,
you don’t want to do that with me. Maybe we’re
just getting too old to deal with it. The idea of
playing games just seems exhausting. The thought
I can’t be honest with you isn’t attractive. I don’t
care to seem cool or detached. I’m neither of
those things. So why let you believe I’m
something I’m not?
You know nothing about me is smooth, like the
way I laugh too loudly at jokes that don’t even
deserve such hearty cackles. Or how I’ll attempt a
sexual advance and accidentally end up smacking
you in the face. I’m not your airbrushed Playboy
woman; I’m flawed and nervous and have a
tendency to trip on my own two feet when you
look at me with those brown eyes.
There’d be no point in lying to you when I know
you can already see through me. And truth be
told? It’s scary. It’s terrifying to be around
someone who holds me and kisses me, and I just
know how fully transparent I am the entire time.
So no, I don’t need you. I could live my life
without you and probably still find happiness and
success. I bet I’d fall in love with someone else,
maybe start a family. Get a French Bulldog. Put
sweaters on him when he was cold in the winter.
I’d take a class at the local community center,
maybe try pottery. Remember I suck at anything
involving my hands, so I’d quit after two classes.
I’d do all the things I want to do.
Losing you wouldn’t be the end of me. With
enough time, I’d be just fine.
But I want you. And doesn’t that mean so much
more? You are not imperative to my survival. You
are not a pair of lungs pumping oxygen through
my body. I don’t drink you to avoid dehydration. I
don’t depend on you for anything. But I want you
so badly, I can feel it pulsing in my blood. I can
taste you for hours after we say goodbye and all I
have is the faint smell of you on my sweater.
I want you, and not just sexually, I want you when
I am standing in the grocery store and wonder
what clever pun you’d rattle off about the stupid
magazine cover on the stand. I want you when I’m
driving and a random song comes on that I know
you’d somehow have far too much trivia on to
make sense, but that’s why it’s the fucking best. I
want you when you are stressed out and things
don’t feel fair. I want you when you are upset, want
to sit with you while we figure it out.
You aren’t the man who will make or break me. I
have learned those men do not exist. I may have
given some that power, once, back then, but it
wasn’t something they waltzed in with. I chose to
surrender it.
I do not need you in my life. But I really, really
want you in it.
Post source: http://thoughtcatalog.com/ari-eastman/2015/11/so-what-if-i-dont-need-you-i-want-you/

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