This is why.

I keep thinking of the moment I glimpsed your head across the ER.  I keep thinking of the way you hugged me when you reached me, the way your fingertips gently kneaded into my back as if you were checking to make sure it was all still there.  I keep thinking about how you made me feel like everything would be okay in a way that I had thought I had stopped believing anyone could ever do.  And I regret telling you what happened because I can’t make it okay for you.  I think about that a lot.  The first thought I had when you were hugging me in the ER that night, was of the look on your face when we had been sleeping together for a while and I thought it was appropriate to tell you I had been raped.  I knew I loved you then because your eyes were breaking my heart.  You had the same look in the ER.  The fact that you hurt, hurts me more than the fact that someone hurt me.  I think I should never do it again – tell someone what happened.  And I think that, really, I hurt you because I let this happen to me again.  I think about that a lot.  The nurse said I was lucky to have you.  You were unlucky to have me.

And then I think about the things I did to you months ago.  I think about flirting with the Brazilian bartender in front of you.  I think about how I acted like everything was life and death and misery in between.  And I think about how I would cry and how you would just curl up next to me, even when I shouted at you to leave.  And I think of how many times I threatened to leave and how you were always there for me.  And I think of how many times in the past six months you’ve asked, “Why me?  Why do you want me?  What makes me so special?”