I’m far too self-involved. I spent days thinking about how I was going to say these beautifully painful things, and now that the time has come, my mind shuts down. This was supposed to be a wondrous story about how I don’t actually find you that attractive, but can’t stay away. So fuck it. Fuck it. I’m going to stop wishing I was some prolific writer, and I’m just going to say it. You’re not going to read this anyway.

I like my men skinny. I like when their hips dig into my flesh as we lay in bed. I like men with pianists’ fingers that dart over my body in the dark. I like men with harsh blue eyes that pull me in and suck me dry.

I like my men hairless, with smooth planes for my hands to dance over. I like my men to have to have narrow faces that I can cup in my hands and kiss.

I like men who are silent and neurotic, stoically strange. I like men who don’t like me, ones I have to fight for. I like to have to manipulate respect out of them, and have them suddenly realise that I’m something they need, even for just a little while.

Long story short, sweetheart, you’re not my kind of beautiful.

You are larger than me, wider. You gave me beard burn the first time we kissed. Your hairs tickle me when I touch you. Your hands do not belong to a musician, and your voice doesn’t remind me of the rain. Your lines aren’t sharp; they are rounded, fleshy.

You’ve seen me at my worst and like me anyway. It was almost too easy. It was too easy for us both. It was far too easy for the intoxicated touching, kissing, stroking, moaning, groaning, panting mess to become more. It was too easy for us to start to spend time together – alone.

When did the drunken mistake become tender kisses over cupcakes?

When did you start to spend less time with your friends to see me for an hour or so.

When the fuck did I care that you didn’t text this weekend?

Why the fuck do I care?

I don’t look at you and swoon - I never will – but you kiss the back of my neck and I melt. You don’t kiss me the way I want you to, but when you do, I glow a little. Our heights and arms make holding hands awkward, but I smile inside when yours reaches for mine.

I hate that I’m becoming a filthy romantic. I’m praying for my cynicism to pull through. I long for my “don’t care” attitude. I’m hoping you’ll text me tomorrow.

Damn it. I hate that you’re not my kind of beautiful.