today, i am mad at you.

last night i dreamed of you in all your temptation. a dream of someone i once had but will never have again. it's been over a year since our demise. it's been over a year since we broke each other's hearts. and yet, today, i am mad at you.

while cleaning out my closet, i stumbled upon a sweater and accidentally stumbled upon you. the sweater was teal and intricately detailed, dotted with sequins and beads. and it, like our relationship, had seen better days. the bottom hem had started to unravel--a consequence of poor workmanship--and i hadn't worn it in months. yet there it hung in my closet, in all it's tattered beauty. in the back of my mind i knew i held onto it because i still held onto you. onto us.

you see, i remember vividly that it was the sweater i wore the first time we met. the first time you held me. the first time we kissed. sitting on a couch in a very quiet place, you ran your hand over my shoulder and over the sequins. i remember.

i remember every inch of that day, every movement. in fact, i remember most of everything about us, including every moment. i remember our intricacies, and our jokes. i remember your voice and how it sounded in your chest when i was leaning against you. i remember the late nights. i remember impromptu arabic lessons and you opening my eyes to what islam was really about. mostly, though, i remember how i loved you.

but now, i suspect, you have forgotten. even after our fall-out, when we pretended we could be friends, you moved on so easily. true, i remember the moments where you broke down (you're much more sensitive than you'll ever admit)...but it always seemed so easy for you. there are some days when i'd like to call you on the phone. i'd like to ask you how you're doing, i'd like to be a part of your life again. mostly, though, i want to know if you remember and if you still hurt. i want to know if you still regard me as your first love. but i suspect you don't.

so today, i am mad at you.

so today, i took a pair of scissors to the sweater and cut. cut. cut. i cut up the front. and i cut down the shoulder, over the arm where you slid your hand. i cut apart the beautiful sweater the way everything that was beautiful about us was cut apart. then slowly, one by one, i cut off each bead and sequin. at first, to save the pretty beads. but then, it became more of a therapeutic practice. every cut of a string to release a bead was cutting one of the strings in my heart that still ties me to you.

by the time i got done removing every last bead, literally hundreds of them, there were teal sequins strewn everywhere across the pink sheets of my lovely bed. my hand and neck felt sore from determination and concentration, my heart still sore from our crash. but i didn't care. because, today, i'm mad at you.

maybe tomorrow i'll be able to forget you.

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