Hello,

This is the thirty-first letter I’ve written, the thirty-first letter I will never send. It’s such a predictable tendency, human inability to let words go. It all started that night when we were lying on the carpet, surrounded by our supposed high-school friends, and our hands climaxed after hours leading up to tingly fingers and goose-bumps. Yesterday night, almost a year later, we laid in the exact same position. A different room, different people, but my hand stayed the same; and yours as well. But now I reach and you back away, my manic laughs in between shots of Vodka remind you of what you have left behind. Me.

And I can’t help but wonder whether you went to her because she is the epitome of everything I am not, the complete opposite of what I could ever be. With a curvy body and lovely blue eyes, she has the misfortune of being a benign tumor; she is kind and talks with suspenseful silences. Did you care? Do you care now? Because my eyes are dark and unforgiving, and because my hair always made you laugh; because I am loud and demanding, and I have to have everything my way. Do you hate me?

And now, six months, two relationships, several drunken nights, and no love later, I still need you. I have to thank you for my pain. Sitting on my windowsill as I always do, smoking the last cigarette of the day, I miss you. And frankly, I have never needed a boy. That’s what you are, right? My defenses have deteriorated, and my eyes are filled with pathetic, clingy, distasteful, need. So what now? Do I regret letting it all go? Remember all of the fights we had--always because of my shortcomings, always because of my immaturity--that ended with me crying on the bathroom floor, door locked? You were probably sitting on the left corner of my bed (because I was always right) , in a complete haze, not understanding why every line (even the ones beginning with "you're beautiful") led to incomprehensible, loud spouting of curses. But I will never know. I never bothered asking.

I have to thank you for hugging me coldly, never quite close enough, always with a slight cringe. You never say how you feel, but your body leaves no doubt that I have to let go. So thank you for that. Did I hurt you? But you must know that I still remain here, staring at grey skies and quiet streets, forlorn houses with useless chimneys, and I will stay until you understand it all. Thank you for making me feel. Thank you for not saying what I already know. Thank you for letting me decay in my pitiful bubble of hope. I rather keep on pretending for a while longer than falling again.

And maybe now I realize this is not a letter, it’s a tranquilizer for the world’s greatest fuck-ups. I say thank you for all the things I distain, all the failed memories and impossible promises; I say thank you for not being able to move on. I thank God that your smell is still contained within the waeves of your old sweatshirt, and I thank myself for looking back and turning into a pillar of salt. I melt slowly into a puddle of rain and tears, dissolved, running in the streets and into the gutters, where the rats and homeless live; where I maintain an ambiguous form of light and death. I live where no conclusions live, I die where all else has failed. Thank you for smashing the picture of us that stood on my desk. Occasionally I still find a remenant of the splattered glass on the floor.

“It’s not me, it’s you”.
The reversal of all clichés, the end of all prodigious love, and I’m still here.



Yours always,

Me.