(another piece from my senior project)

I always hated lying on your bed and looking up at all the photographs you had of her. The black and red dress; the bouquet of yellow flowers (sunshining her face); the blue print, poorly lit. I hated her in her cut-up t-shirt, the day you walked to Easthampton and then went on a picnic. I hated her in her coat and hat; it was winter and you probably thought you loved her.

Gradually my face joined hers upon the wall—the day I bought suspenders, the day I cut my hair— but still she haunted me. It didn’t help that I knew you still loved her, and it didn’t help that I felt I could never be good enough. You had evaded me for so long, how could I possibly be good enough? Especially now, now that you could see what you were missing, and it’s not all that great. I was terrified you would go back to her.

Forget that I was nicer to you, sweeter to you, loved you more. All I could think of was how she was your first love, and the sight of all those tears in your eyes when she broke your heart and broke your heart and broke your heart.

I wish you had a photograph of how hard I hugged you that day, or how much I wanted to kiss you and make it all better; more helpful reminders that I’m not good enough—I’m better.

Photograph by photograph, she was taken down, until only three smiles watched me as I snuggled beneath your blankets and looked up at the stripes on your walls.

Three perfect smiles that don’t scare me anymore.