I’ll say you wasted my time.

I’ll say I regret everything and wish I’d never met you.

But the truth is I don’t.

I don’t regret our first date when I jumped in the pool with you even though it was freezing.

I don’t regret the night at the hotel my parents celebrated their wedding in when you stole a bottle of wine and popped the cork with your thumb.

And I don’t regret the seemingly thousands of times I lay my head in your chest and time seemed to suspend indefinitely.

But I do regret not truly listening to myself.

You didn’t want to keep a shirt I tried to give you. You wanted to donate it.

You were always evasive and quick to call me “beautiful” and tell me how “insanely gorgeous” I am.

But compliments are the cheap vodka of failed relationships.

I got drunk on the way you treated me and now I’m stuck with a headache.

Maybe I had it coming.

But maybe I didn’t.

I’ll curse every Fay Weber song and curse myself for all the time I spent thinking about you.

I’ll curse whiskey because of all the times I tasted it in your mouth.

Deep down in my gut, I knew.

I always did.

But I was drunk on a mixture of your cheap compliments, gestures, and Deep Eddys Lemon Vodka (I hope you taste me in every sip. Especially when you drink it with her.)

But you were sober.

And now I am too. Just left with a headache you gave me.

But every hangover goes away.