i wonder if it’s washed, and, if not, are you comforted by the smell? i wonder if you places any sentimental value on it, if you are conscious of its owner when you are wearing it.

i wonder these things because i know that if i had some item of clothing that belonged to you, i’d probably exhibit all of the above… and as much as there is beauty in unrequited love, there is something almost unfair and cruel about a dreadfully unbalanced love.

i’d rather a forthright dislike or lack of interest, a complete rejection of my feelings, a denial, anything concrete of that nature, than an obscure, inconstant display of affection or desire in me. it fucks with my head.

have you washed my sweater? that’s what i want to know. i need to know, because then i can determine whether or not you love me at all.

i can be poor, irrational, dreamy, naive cassie ainsworth who peers over a railing down at her beloved sid jenkins, repeating the words “if you like me, look up. you like me. you like me. look up, if you like me. look up, if you like me”, banking all of the likelihood of sid’s feelings being true on a simple, fortuitous glance up in her direction.

that is how i feel and who i relate to.

so, if you love me, don’t wash my sweater. i want to know you think of me. you care for me. i mean something to you. the sweater means something to you. maybe not always. maybe only when you wear it. maybe you forget about it entirely in its absence. maybe you forget about me entirely in my absence… but i just need to know that while i’m there, and while you’re wearing that goddamn lime green pullover, you think of me.