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Robin Hebb.

writer, performer, cool girl.

 

The Worst Part.

The Worst Part.

Artwork by Agathe Sorlet

 

The worst part

is that

through

your words and actions

and

that goddamn look in your eyes,

I was able to sink into you

just enough

to be disappointed.




 

You

touched,

kissed,

&

looked  

in a way

that made me think

Oh.

This one is special.



 

 

The worst part

is that

you insist on being

a ghost.

Heaven forbid I forget about you.

Heaven forbid I acknowledge you.



 

The worst part

is how quickly I’d jump at the chance to

forgive you.

I’m so eager to

forgive you for treating me like I was

ignorable

and

replaceable.

Clearly, I'm not.

 

 

I’m ready to forgive you for

disappearing

as quickly as you

appeared.



 

 

And the worst part is

all you’d have to do

is say something.

Anything.

Because

whether or not you meant to,

you made it

(me

&

you)

fragile enough,

nice enough,

sexy enough,

for me to be willing

to throw

all reason

out the window.



 

 

The worst part has got to be that

I’m worried about you.

 

 

I’m worried that you treated everyone else the way you treated me

and disappeared without a trace.

I’m worried that you isolated yourself so much that

no one sends you cat emojis

when you’re lonely.

And that really does

worry me.



 

 

It’s in my nature

to care,

to nurture,

to send cat emojis

and

to worry.


 

 

But,

you made it very clear...

It’s not my job to worry about you.

 

 

 

And that’s got to be

the worst part.

George Stroumboulopoulos.

George Stroumboulopoulos.

Booty Call Rehabilitation.

Booty Call Rehabilitation.