Unwind

You didn't do anything but almost like me. 
Almost tell me I was pretty and funny and kind, 
almost think I was worth whatever embarrassment comes from vulnerability. 

Almost notice that I refuse to eat until everyone else has gotten their plates, 

passing them down like a mother at a birthday party. 

Almost respect that I refuse to insult people, 

even when it's a joke, 

and that I tell people the things they don't hear enough 

-- in both directions. 

Almost want me. 

And you didn't do anything but leave, 

unceremoniously, 

when I was just starting to wonder if you'd get along with my friends from home. 

And so I must unwind you 

-- from my vocabulary, 

from my phone, 

from my stories, 

from my jokes. 

In the tales of the best times of my life, 

I have to pretend you were less significant than you were. 

And you didn't even do anything but I'm still so mad. 

It makes me feel stupid and young and those wasn't supposed to be the things you saw in me. 

I think the image of you will haunt me forever 

-- what we might've been if only everything was completely different. 

It wouldn't have worked, 

so why does it hurt like this? 

I don't know where to put all this emotion I have, 

so down it will go 

-- along with everything I will never tell you. 

Along with everything I wish you had told me.