Sitting in my truck, I remember the scar on your hand. I remember how it was revealed by the sleeve of your sweatshirt scrunched up against my side as your arm stretched across me in my bed. That scar you got in a lacrosse game that we both played in, and you broke your hand in two places. I admired how you didn’t tell anyone until after the game that your hand was broken. That sort of toughness was one of the many things I grew feelings for you over.
But there I was, after many lacrosse games, and many drunken nights, next to you spooning in my Spider Man sheets. I couldn’t tell you I wanted to be with you and you only, because the idea scared me more than the idea of not seeing the familiar scar on your hand as it lightly brushed against mine as we cuddled in bed.
I don’t know why it scared me. Maybe it was because you were a girl. Maybe it was because you were a tall beautiful girl with brown hair and piercing blue eyes, and I knew I would never leave you if we started dating. Maybe it was because monogamy is one of the dirtiest words to me. Maybe it’s because I was an idiot. I always told you I liked you but couldn’t be with you, and we still ended up doing nothing but cuddled up in bed.
I remember when I finally told you I wanted to try and date you in spite of my reservations about relationships, but I couldn’t make any promises. I remember you told me you didn’t know because you felt you would be the one hurt in the end.
But now, here I am, stuck at a stoplight and there’s you and your new girlfriend. I know you see my truck, but you grab your girlfriend’s hand and cross the street pretending you don’t know who I am. All I can see is the scar on your hand as it holds hers, and I know that I’m the one hurt in the end.