You promised me you’d take me on museum dates, we’d wordlessly lie on the floor together and that you’d let me count your freckles and connect them with a pen. You promised me you’d never get angry again when I ate all the cookie dough and that you’d love me even when I purposely annoyed you. You promised me you’d never say no to coming to art gallery openings with me, even if you found them ever so boring. You promised me you’d always kill the spiders and wouldn’t laugh at me when I climbed on top of the table because of one. You promised me my thighs were the perfect size and that I’d always be beautiful, even with blood streaming down my wrists, especially then. You promised me you’d accept the fact I liked taking baths in my underwear and that I liked eating Quiche Lorraine at 4am in the morning. You promised me you’d buy me books instead of roses and never, ever take me out for dinner at some cheesy, romantic restaurant.
You promised me you wouldn’t leave and now you’re with her.