October 11, 2012
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I broke you on a Monday, Columbus Day. I broke up with you on a Monday, Columbus Day. But I also broke you.
It wasn't the first time I'd started a conversation. "We need to talk," what a cliche. It wasn't the first time I made you cry, made you beg, made you leave. But it was the first time you and I both knew I wouldn't come crawling back, asking for forgiveness. We both knew this was it. The big one. The moment there was no going back from. We were looking over the edge, and this time, we wouldn't jump, we would fall.
I broke you on a Monday. We didn't have school. We hadn't seen one another for a week, and you texted asking to hang out. To talk.
And I knew, when I agreed, what the night would entail. Not kisses, or cuddles, or sex, but rather something worse. And you came, blindly, and foolishly. You walked right into the trap I set for you. You came willingly, happily, so stupidly.
I broke you on a Monday. I knew it would happen, but I went through with it anyway.
"I don't feel attracted to you anymore. Surely you've noticed? When we're together, I'm short, rude, angry. I don't treat you like you deserve to be treated." You made me spell it out, like I was talking to a five year old. You sat there and stared at me as if I had two heads, one speaking gibberish, the other singing opera. I wanted you to butt in, "Okay, I get it. Let's be adult about this whole thing." I expected too much of you, as usual. I hate you.

I broke you on a Monday. And you let me.

"Do you understand?" I asked. "Do you get it? Hello...anyone home in that little tiny brain of yours? C'mon. You must have seen this coming. How blind are you?" You stared at me. Fidgeted. Pinched your right hand with your left. Over and over and over again. "This isn't a dream!" I wanted to shout. You just kept pinching yourself, trying to wake up.

I broke you on a Monday. I wrote a nightmare and made you the main character, the heroine. Except it was a tragedy and I was the villain.

And then you were crying, slowly at first. Tears running down your cheeks. I could see the salt stains left behind. I wanted to kiss them off your face. But the thought of kissing you made me sick. "Why? No. You can't." But I could. And I did. And I let you cry and didn't touch you, didn't look at you. I stared at the floor. At the garishly striped bedspread of my roommate's well-made bed. I memorized the grain of my dresser and the dust pattern on my windowsill.

I broke you on a Monday. It wasn't the first time, but it would be the last.

You cried for hours. The green light on the clock changed slowly from 5 to 6 and then to 7. Dinner time came and went. All I could think of was how hungry I was, while you begged for me to say it was a joke, "All's well, honey. I love you!" The window was open. I'm sure people outside could hear your sobs. Loud, ugly sobs. Desperate. Pleading.

I broke you on a Monday. I lured you in, last November, January, in March, over the summer. I promised you forever, and then I retracted my promise.

You looked into my eyes and begged. And I stared at you, in a bit of shock because I honestly couldn't feel anything. Not even a little bit of guilt at the immense hurt you were in. I stared at you, clinically, pityingly, annoyed that your tears were staining my shirt. I held you awkwardly, patting your back in a friendly manner, controlled, cool. You sobbed and I refused to hug you. But your hair, it smelled like flowers and I wanted to sink my face in it, breathe deeply. It smelled like meadows and sunshine and happiness. Your hair smelled delightful.

I broke you on a Monday. I forced you out.

After three hours, I made you leave. "This isn't helping. Stop saying please, nothing's going to change." I hugged you, pulling you close in order to weaken your grip and slip away. I was hungry and wanted you gone so I could satisfy my appetite. I was tired of sitting up straight, avoiding your advances. I let you kiss me. Quick, painful. I didn't feel anything. "Get out."

I broke you on a Monday. I looked you in the eye and swore I'd never leave, and then I did. On Columbus Day.

You wouldn't go. So I went. Mad you could drive me from my own home. Got dinner, stared at my phone, wondering if you were gone yet, if you'd smashed up my s***. I came in through the back room. My roommates checked that you were gone. "Did you check the closet?" They did. You were gone. Thank goodness. But you left a note, "I love you. I need you. Please." I threw it away.

I broke you on a Monday, and I can still smell your shampoo and see the tears running down your face, hear the boys outside smoking and listening to you cry, picture the coloring of the floorboards, and the cold seeping into my feet from the open window letting in the autumn chill. I made you plead and beg and cry. And through it all, I never once felt guilt or remorse, sadness, or hurt. I didn't feel anything. I didn't love you anymore. I was an adult about it all.

I broke you on a Monday. And I'm sorry.

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