I Don't Like Yellow Flowers.

I don’t care for flowers in general, but specifically yellow flowers piss me off so much more than any other kind. It might have something to do with the fact that a bee stung me while I admired a yellow flower when I was younger.

It was high school, and I was more of a hermit than you were. We didn’t go to the same schools, but a lot of the people I knew also knew you, and it almost made me want to avoid you at all costs. I swear people looked at me so differently once they knew we were cool.

However, I was unsure about what we were meant to be. If there had to be a title, I guess. You made it clear to everyone we knew that we were friends.

But you said some pretty cheesy things to me, all about the universe and my eyes piercing yours. Some of it made my heart sink so deeply in the best way. There was one time we just lay in the grass near a hill. It was actually pretty romantic, but the amount of times that sex came up made me question my own standing in the relationship.

You would try to kiss me in private, and touch me in places I didn’t care to be touched, but somehow enjoyed when you did it. That time was such a thrill.

At times I wondered if you cared for me deeper than skin, and it did seem that way. But it seemed like you only ever wanted me around for a good time.

We didn't do any of that for at least a few weeks after meeting, but the tension built so quickly. What really had me fucked is that we would get so deep in conversation, that I just knew it had to be way more than just skin and passion. But it seemed like really all you cared for was my skin. It felt so gross.

There was one moment I remember most vividly where we sat on the grass admiring the evening sky. It was one of the hottest summers but being next to you made it a little more bearable.

I loved holding your hand so much, and you didn't seem to mind it. Sometimes I miss it, but it often escalated to more physical things, and you'd almost always end up kissing my lips and caressing my body.

Sheesh. Thankfully, you were a beautiful lover and I didn't mind sharing my body with you. Otherwise, I would have felt more conflicted about being used for my vessel.

Ultimately, I do think of you often and I wonder what you're up to from time to time. I also wonder if you think of me and in what context. I wonder if you’ve replaced me or if you even care to. I wonder how you tell our story to yourself or if you even do.

Do you remember when you got me a bouquet of marigolds? I wonder if you remember just how much I did not like yellow flowers. I was so paranoid a bee would come to sting me, but I did appreciate the sentiment that came with the flowers.

I wonder if you think about that time in the park where I got you to go with me to the park’s slide and indulge in your inner child. Do you even remember us?

I guess it doesn’t matter much, because it’s all in the past now. We’ve had our fun and I cleaned up the mess as much as I could for my own trajectory. We aren’t in each others’ lives now and the mess that was our romance is over.

Your mother still pops up in my brain and I saw her the other day at the store. I told her not to tell you I saw her. She said you were doing fine.

I do miss you occasionally, and think about a life where we stayed friends. But ultimately, it was too confusing. We got really close in so little time, and the label ‘friends’ was too insignificant for me, as I would never show what I showed you to anyone else.

But you couldn’t understand that; you wanted your way and I wanted mine. “Too much of a mess” is something I remember saying to you when I broke it off. I thought you were going to cry honestly; you don’t have to admit it if you did later on. It’s whatever.

I think I miss the feelings you inspired; you made me so creative and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Some of my best paintings were inspired by you, and it’s weird being so connected to something that I don’t talk to.

Jamal told me you were dating someone else. It didn’t sting as much as I felt it should have, but it did hurt a significant amount in my chest.

It’s whatever. We’re over.

There is no us anymore. But I still have those marigolds you gave me. Some of them have died but the majority are still kicking and they remind me of us whenever I pass them in my house. They don’t make me paranoid of getting stung anymore either.

I think I’m mostly over my childhood fear.

I hope you’ve been well.