Black T-shirts

Nobody wears them better.

I’m trying to promise myself this will be the last time I write about you.

Because it’s becoming obsessive,

and truth be told,

though others can relate,

maybe that’s what pushed you away.

The fact that the girl you once found amusing is a freak;

that she writes out everything.

And yet you screwed her over anyway.

Hey, you brought that upon yourself.

I still miss you; not like you don’t know.

I miss that you gave me something to look forward to during the day,

somebody to look forward to talking to,

laughing with and at,

and everything in between.

You made me feel happy,

and I don’t care how selfish it is,

I want to feel that way with you again.

Not romantically;

you’ve made your choices in that department and honestly…

I’ll be polite just this once.

But overall just happy,

and alive.


Slightly awesome.

I write this to spill the little intricacies:

the way when we would talk, I’d listen and trace your face.

Because I’m slightly weird,

and I’m a trace-er.

The way that just until last night,

your employee shopping card,

the receipt from Malaga,

and the ring you made me out of a twisted straw wrapper still laid on my nightstand.

The text you sent me that night after I told you I liked you as more than a friend

still saved in my notes,

still perfectly punctuated.

Ironically, entirely a lie.

You shouldn’t have promised me anything.

The way every time I see someone in a black t-shirt, I think of you.

I can name the exact one, too: Fox brand, you reap what you sew, etc., etc., etc.

Because, as mentioned before, no one looks as good in black t-shirts as you do.

Same way about jeans;

how certain people can wear them better than others?
You fall into that category, too.

Well this is boringly and embarassingly honest,

but if I don’t write raw, what else is next?

The thing about black t-shirts,

and the jeans,

is that even in my dreams,

that’s how you come to me.

And maybe it’s just drilled into my memory;

it’s always that way in dreams.

The face is always blurry, though you know who you’re speaking to,

but everything else is clear.

And this past Sunday,

it was so real.

Because your back was to me,

and you said to me: “Even though my girlfriend’s in there,

when I want to talk about something,

I want to talk to you.”

And I stood there,

and some random girl in the dream came over and hit on you,

claiming she thought you called her because she didn’t know the number

and you told her it was from North Carolina and I sat back and watched,

how it was so easy for others to come up and flirt with you,

though you gave nothing back.

And it’s gotten to the point in these dreams, where I wake myself up,

shake myself up,

reminding myself they aren’t real.

What your girlfriend actually looks like,

and what you actually have or have not said.

Because I’m out of it for the day,

if the dreams keeps repeating themselves in my head.

Honestly, sometimes,

I don’t know how to differentiate between

them and reality.

And because of that girl in the dream,

it made me realize a few things.

That every time I stood next to you,

as your project, which you denied,

I always considered myself a run of the mill type girl.

The day I met Ashley,

I realized I was taking her place.

The next one to be corrupted.

The next shell to crack.

And then stare at the yoke as it dribbles into saddened state.

As I watched the other girl in my dream fawn over you,

as I knew you would never feel the same about me,

I realized I never thought I had anything to offer.

I was just a pass of time,

an amusement,

a tourniquet,

for pain you weren’t ready to deal with,

to share with her yet,

And I…

I lost myself to him,

thought I regained myself through you.

But who are you,

to deny me of the right

that being Gabby isn’t good enough.

Because one boy in black can make you think you are not good enough,

because you aren’t his cup of tea.

Your passion,


and crazy.

Your compassion,

your kindness,

the way you speak sentences turned into tornadoes,


grey cloud gone hazy,

can’t see straight,

because he hears her spilling thought and emotion,

like hail pelting down on deserted farm lands,

scattered all around

We aren’t in Kansas anymore,

there are no rainbows,

there is only scattered remnants of the disaster

thrown down from the cloud

of the paragraph that cascaded from her mouth

into tear drops betraying her eyes, down her cheeks,

hikers too weak,

to climb,

to breathe,

and she is sobbing…

because of black t-shirts.

Ripping hair out,

because of black t-shirts


because of black t-shirts.


because of black t-shirts.


on black t-shirts.

Once upon a time,

amidst claims of chivalry,

you told me I deserved better than you.

I asked you,

the next day,

if I deserved better,

what does that say about your girlfriend?

You said she was stupid,

then smiled.

I was stupid,

waiting around for that.

But you screwed up your chances when you wouldn’t come to hear me speak.

When you dismissed something extremely important to me.

Something you told me I should do,

that I had talent in.

And you’d be behind me,

snapping and playing the bongos in the background.

Once upon a time,

I told you I just wanted you happy.

And while that is still true,

to an extent,

I’m learning that means that I don’t have to be happy for you.

That I can find my own happiness.

With or without you.

Even if that means one day,

you realize you miss me, too.


you will.

Because, babe, in case you didn’t realize,

we are on a college campus,

and there are PLENTY of black t-shirts.

Besides, I always preferred thermals anyway.


One thought on “Black T-shirts

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