I’m coming around to a year since we last spoke. I don’t
want to speak to you. I don’t want to hear your voice. I don’t want to know
that you’re still as much of an idiot as you were then. I don’t miss you—I miss the person I thought
was you. I look at your picture and have to remind myself that the person I
thought you were was an act to get you in where you could fit in. There’s a reason you have so many masks—you
refuse to commit to the face that lies beneath.
You are a kaleidoscope of personalities that changes as your user
commands. You think you have control? HA—you can’t have it when you care so
much about what others think. You’ll land yourself in jail, have bricks flying
through your windows, lose your cars, your freedom and your mind—all because
you wanted to keep up with everyone else’s stupidity. But hey, you are who you
hang with.
I hate when I start looking for any indication that the
“you” I knew has emerged and that you miss me, because I know the real you forgot
about me already. If I had meant
anything to you, you never would have let me walk away. You let me walk away so
many times, you humiliated me from far away, in front of everyone, and I
followed you like a stupid, blind little puppy. You never stopped me from
making a fool of myself, because you liked the idea of someone being so
stupidly in love with you that I lost all regard for my dignity. You let your stupid friends make fun of me,
shun me and make me look like a psycho.
You wanted perfection and unconditional devotion, but I am far from
anything that is perfect, and I am a breathing human who wanted reciprocation.
You just knew that you loved pure, unfailing devotion—without having to submit
to any of your own.
You’d kill yourself for just a small scrap of the person I
am now, but you’ll never see it. You’ll
go through a thousand girls whose hearts you will also shatter, and you will
experience twice the breaks in a cosmic retribution derived from the crone
Karma, while her maiden-self will show me her beautiful forgiveness and offer
me redemption. Go around the world and
wait for your imagination to create a perfect image of humble submission with a
perfect figure—nothing you could ever conjure in your twisted mind will ever compare
to the Native Goddess that stood before you in jeans and multicolored Chucks.
Do not speak of love if you did not do all you could to
protect the love you had. Do not speak
of love’s rejection if you did not heed its call because it did not present
itself in the way you wanted it. I loved
you, but I was not the manifestation of your selfish desires. Your love is a
toxic mill that ground me up and burned the mash, until there was nothing left
of that person I used to be. I have risen from the ashes of that lost love, and
returned a better, stronger person—one that you have no right to ever have a
chance at again.
Yes, you fucked love—you beat it, raped it and left it for
dead, and blamed it for your sorrow. You
imbibed in love’s tears and blamed them for your drunken thirst. You gorged on love’s bounty and cursed it for
your state of emotional bulimia. Do not blame love for your empty cup—blame yourself
for throwing the glass—and when you’ve burned, suffocated, and starved for the
very thing you hold within yourself and refuse to give… I hope you forgive
yourself, pick up the pieces and find something better than you could ever give
yourself the chance to find.
That, my dear, is love—in spite of my anger and sadness for
what you have done, I still wish you a path out of your misery and into the
paradise that you’ve denied yourself. If I never see you again (which, in fact,
is the plan), may you find peace in your soul and love in your heart.
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