John

John, why couldn’t you be different? Why couldn’t you have those nice blue eyes, and baby soft blonde hair? Why couldn’t you keep your mouth closed, and try not to touch me? Why couldn’t you have been the one?
You were my first boyfriend John. You walked me through three days and a night of my seventh grade life. You walked me around the quad, showing me off on your arm, as I tried to shrink away.
I liked you, really I did. You were nice, and you let me flirt with you, but that was one night. One night when the world was different, and it was spinning around and around. You took me by the hand, and we jumped the fence and ran into the dark old baseball stadium. Around and around I spun, intoxicated with the night. Drunk on the cold air. I grabbed your hands and we made little circles in the grass. But that was one night John.
Why did I say yes, when your friend asked me out for you? I could have just as easily said no, but I think that it was because I didn’t want to spoil the night. Or maybe it was because I was dizzy from all of the spinning.
The next day, I was back to my senses. I felt dwarfed by your awesome height, intimidated by your football player’s build. I could smell you, none to fresh, and when you spoke, you would sometimes spit. I didn’t want to be mean. Really, it’s true. I didn’t want to be mean, but I was young. I was ashamed.
John, all I wanted was for you to be different.