You are not special. 

 

You don’t get the luxury of walking back into my life, 

at 3:30 in the morning, 

trying to claim something that was never yours. 

I may like tequila more than I have ever like you, 

but I can see through my own fog. 

 

You don’t get to declare history. 

You can’t tell me that you’ve known me for a decade, 

like you’ve earned this because of you’ve stuck through 

our wars

You can’t say that we made promises when we were younger 

and that those promises still hold true

I loved you when I was younger

but I know how much history repeats, 

and I don’t love you now. 

 

You don’t get to say you’re the only one who truly knows me

no one knows me. 

I am the ultimate chamber of secrets, 

and you don’t get to pretend that you’ve spend years uncovering all of them

just to get close to me, in this moment. 

Don’t you know how many men have tried to tell me they know me, just as you have?  

 

You don’t have the right to bring up the past, 

just to make a future. 

You don’t need to remind me of all of the years we spent together. 

You can’t congratulate me for battling through childhood

for independently funding my way through college

claiming that you are so fiercely proud you have known me for so long. 

You weren't there for anything. 

 

You don’t get to make me feel guilty. 

I don’t care how many years we have toyed with the idea

I can say no, and that is always my right.  

You can’t make me feel responsible, 

like you’ve been pent up for years, waiting, 

and you’re the one with everything to lose. 

You already lost so many years.

 

You don’t get to throw compliments at me

Don’t you know I have heard everything you are saying from other men? 

You don’t get to tell me how much I have changed, how beautiful I’ve become, 

you’ve become. 

I’ve been all over the world, do you think I haven’t been with more exotic beings than you?

 

You don't get to ask me what we are, 

because you’ve listed all the things we once were. 

We are nothing, 

and we are especially nothing now that you’ve asked.

You don’t get to throw your feelings for me

at me

like I’m waiting to catch them, to accept them, a decade later. 

 

You are the fantasy every girl has, 

but I am the reality of women. 

And while every other women you have ever laid hands on may not 

be strong enough to pay for your cab home, 

I owe you nothing

and an Uber ride home is the most you will ever receive from me. 

 

This piece has been published on Thought Catalog. You can view the published version here. 

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