Coming to Terms with the Ex Files

He was yours first, I suppose.

And it doesn't matter whether you dated for 10 days or 10 years because the fact of the matter is, you beat me to it. You marked your territory before I even knew there was land to be found.

Though I envy you your history and your inextricably linked lives,  I don't envy you because you lost him. You turned your back. You let what you had wilt and decay into nothing. Well, not nothing. I found some scraps, I picked up the pieces. I spotted the stomped on seedling of a heart and nurtured it and cared for it and now it's mine. And dammit, I earned it. You don't deserve him if you couldn't figure out how to keep him yours.

He kisses me like his lips were made for mine, so I can't imagine how yours compare. I want to ask him whose lips win, but I don't, because even if he chooses me, I'd rather not turn his attention back to you for even a second.

As we get older, everyone's past becomes greater. I wish you weren't so much of his.

Relationship Advice: If There's No Room for This Article of Clothing... Leave.

Remember when you held up my tiny tank top and asked coldly what it was doing in your drawer? You glared at me like my shirt was a grenade moments away from annihilating your entire neighborhood, rather than the innocent piece of black fabric I knew it to be.

God forbid I take up two inches of your precious closet space.

If this had been days or even weeks into our relationship, I might have understood, but this was several months of regular sleepovers and the official label of "Girlfriend". So why were you so possessive of your space? Why couldn't you make room for me in your life? Were my actions so outlandish and overly-familiar that you felt the need to lash out over a shirt?

That silly shirt has since become a symbol of everything I'm looking for in future relationships.

I want someone who knows my tank tops have nestled in few drawers other than my own. I want someone who recognizes how lucky he is to take off my shirt. I want someone who feels proud to have an article of my clothing tucked away in a corner of his room – a guarantee of future visits.

You might not have thought about it that way. In fact, I’m pretty sure you never grasped the enormity of the situation at the time. But your spiteful, entitled attitude should have sent me running.

I kick myself for trying to make you like me when clearly, you didn’t even like my shirt.