I am over him.

I know for a fact that I am. He disgusts me. His presence annoys me to no end, not to mention anytime my phone vibrates with his name displayed, my eyes are triggered to roll. I see who he really is now. I see who I really am now. I see who I am without him and I like her a hell of a lot better than the girl I used to know.
Even if he wasn’t a complete loser, we still would never have been compatible. We were never really compatible despite our overwhelming amount of similarities in regards to childhood and current family atmosphere. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time. The appeal is… lacking to say the least.

I wrote about him so much. Based so many stories off of our relationship. So many poems. I don’t see it as a waste though. No matter my dislike for him now, I’m not angry anymore. I’m not bitter towards him… just detached. I could never truly hate him.
He taught me so much about myself. He made me stronger. He hurt me a hell of a lot too, but hey… that was bound to happen sometime. Thanks to him, I know what I need in future relationships.

With him I was exceptionally passive. Exceptionally submissive. Exceptionally willing to conform to his ideal of a perfect girl. Always talking and sharing my thoughts and dreams… that I knew he would approve of and relate to.

Pretending to be the type of girl he liked, made me happy. He made me happy.

At the time, I saw him as the boy who painted my sky blue.
He always made things seem better and brighter. On his own terms but, nevertheless. He had the power to make me smile and make me frown. Looking back, I was more of a puppet to him than anything else. He manipulated me. Controlled how I acted, who I talked to, what I talked about.

He painted my sky blue without my permission.

I don’t know if what we had was love, but whatever it was, I didn’t ask for it. Everything with him was so serious. So intense. So fast. And God, it was so confusing.

I tried to take the paintbrush from him a few times. Tried to see what shade he was going to layer on top tomorrow.
He never let me.

The paintbrush was always just out of reach, but close enough that I could still cling to the false hope that I may one day get a hold of it.

Funny.

It’s clear now that you were the only one meant to paint my sky. You always had all of the control and I just sat there and accepted it. Too enamoured by the pretty shades of blue to realize what was really going on.

I didn’t remember what my sky looked like before you came along, and I didn’t care to either.

Every time some semblance of a colour other than blue began to show in my sky, you were so quick to cover it up. At the time I thought that that was your way of protecting me. Your way of showing love and care, but now I know it was just your way of controlling me. At the beginning of everything, right after you won me over with that first coat of paint, it felt good. It felt right. But then came the cracks. The chips. The fading. You never gave a s*** about fixing any of that, you just painted right over it. And I accepted that too.

I mean it was messed up. The sky actually began to crumble and you just stroked your paintbrush over it. It was like you were always painting and I was aways breathing in those fumes.

You know how paint smells at first. Fine, and oddly pleasant to some; but after a while: toxic, nauseating, head-ache inducing.

Dangerous.

But at least it looked pretty.

I didn’t want to let you go because I was afraid of what would happen and what my sky would look like once you were gone.
I’m not sure what I was ever afraid of.

Sure, the first few weeks were tough. They were confusing and bleak with all of that paint fading. But in those instances of pain and loneliness, my true colours finally began to shine through.
Literally and figuratively.

As this happened, I looked around me and noticed that some other girls’ skies were painted the same shade of blue you used to paint mine. Interesting. But I was honestly past the point of caring.
You’re not in my life anymore, so my sky is no longer blue.
I’m oddly alright with that though, as it’s not gray either. It’s a mere mixture of pinks and purples, oranges and yellows, and I like it. I’m learning to live with it.

To some, it’s a mess. To me, it’s a beautiful mess. It’s a mess that doesn’t necessarily need to be cleaned up.

I need someone who can enhance my natural colours, not mute them. I need someone who will accept the peeling paint and faded spots, not immediately try to fix them. I needed someone who would’ve taken my hand instead of the paintbrush. Someone who would’ve seen me for me and accepted it. Someone who would’ve seen this natural mess and thought “K. Needs some work. But I dig it”.

You were not that someone, and that is okay.

I’ll take my oranges and my purples however, and display them proudly. I don’t mind if you view this as me becoming a mess in the absence of you, because your opinion really doesn’t matter anymore.

You keep painting those skies loverboy. Keep your scripted words and shades of blue away from me. Paint some other girl’s sky, I don’t care; you do you and I’ll do me.

I’m not jealous or angry anymore, I’m just being straight up-genuine when I tell you that it’s for the best if you left me alone. It’s better for the both of us, even if it hurts. It might genuinely hurt you, it might not. I wasn’t sure which was worse, but now I really don’t care.

You had asked me if I missed you. Told me to be honest. Do I?

I suppose.

But would I do things any differently?

No.

You weren’t good for me, and even though it hurt to do it, I am so glad you are out of my life.

You want me to be honest?

I liked you and all, but no. I don’t miss you. I know you’ve moved on. I know you’re painting her sky the same shade of blue that you painted mine. And I don’t care. If anything, I find it kind of funny.

You want me to be honest?

Blue was never my favourite colour anyway.