Don’t Tell Me You Love Me Anymore


The first time you said that you loved me, I believed you right away. I wish I could build poetic lies and say that I didn’t believe in love and you showed me the true meaning of it. But, none of that would be true. I knew exactly how love could put a thousand butterflies to shame and tear apart the strongest walls. I knew exactly how love could weaken the knees and redeem the lost hopes. But these are just the overtly glittery nuances, which makes a romantic fool proclaim that love is beautiful.

But I was no fool, at least that’s what I believed. I could fathom the heartbreak that you would cause me just by the look in your eye. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into, a treacherous mess that I couldn’t get out of. Yet, it felt that you would always love me just like the day you kissed me for the first time, under the rain, the best first kiss I could think of.

You used to call me beautiful; never before did I believe when I was called that. You made me feel like I belonged to you, like my happiness mattered to and most importantly, you gave me a sense of purpose.

It sounds too good to be true. But you held me through my anxiety attacks and re-assured me a thousand times over, even when it got annoying. You walked me through my darkest secrets so that I could close the door. You are a wonderful man, a rare kind that keeps others before him.

And I don’t understand how I ceased to matter to you, beyond the tag of a girlfriend, as if a commitment entitles you to take me for granted. I still looked at you with deep yearning while you didn’t even glance at me unless necessary. Suddenly, holding my hands and going for a long walk became a mammoth task for you. Talking with me became wastage of your time. Holding me without being asked, looking into my eyes, kissing me and writing my letter seemed irrelevant. It felt like I had a written value until you got my word that I would stick around. When you had me, I was a mantel piece kept away, without bothering to dust it once in a while.

I wouldn’t call myself a doormat in your life, because you did care for me. But, how do I ignore the absent love and romance? How do I keep assuring myself that you love me, when I kept begging for your attention and you carried your usual nonchalance up your sleeves? Romance didn’t exist as an individual entity; it came, but only as a precursor to sex.

Don’t tell me you love me, now that you are scared I would leave. Don’t tell me you love me, now that I know my worth. I loved you and you loved me. I wish you had taken the effort to make me feel special because I never stopped doing that. I loved you as if you were still the guy who kissed me under the rain, but you aren’t that. I don’t know whether you love me or not, but an occasional rant of words just when I am standing at the door won’t hold me back.

I will hold my broken heart and drag myself at the door, tears rolling down my cheeks; I will slam the door and never look back. This time, if you must have me, you have to walk the extra mile or you can forget that I ever was a part of your life.