Augmenting

Dear D,

i was driving home tonight and i was thinking about your letter and about how i wrote back that endless dribble or stupidity where i am telling you all that shit you do not even care about. And then i felt so stupid for even writing back at all. Because, stop me if i’m wrong, but if you respond you’re only perpetuating my pain, right?

And i was thinking about how i was so not mad then. How i was happy to hear from you. But when it is one am and you’re driving home alone and the radio is crooning “that’s all i wanted, something special, something sacred”, and you’re thinking about that letter, it is easy to be mad. It is hard to not drive your car into on coming traffic. It is easy to finally feel angry about this.

So, you know what? Fuck your condescending. Fuck your allegory. Don’t pretend like you’re sorry. And don’t pretend like you never said you loved me. Don’t. Don’t allegorize what you’re not sure about. And please don’t act like i didn’t love you too.

Because i did. i loved you, and i hate to even say it because i still believed in love then. i still thought: maybe. Because i think i would have given myself to you. i loved you and i hate it because admitting that makes me vulnerable to your superiority. To the loftiness of your words and your actions. Because i hate myself more right at this moment than i have for a long time.

And i can’t even tell you this because my gut reaction to you is not anger or bitterness. Sadly, my instinct is still to love you. But i won’t. i can’t. i am older now and wiser and this whole love theory is nothing but misplaced hormones. It is nothing. And i can’t love you anymore because i can’t bring myself to feel that again. And i don’t really want anymore humiliation.

And i am not even angry at you! That’s the worst part. i am angry at myself. For being stupid enough to ask for your help. For thinking that you would never devalue what we shared. And now it is nothing more than what you call it. Selfish? No. i thought you were doing that for me. i thought you cared about us and our moments. Impulsive? Yes. But good things cannot be planned. Stupid? Fuck you. If it was stupid, then was does that make me? Or you?

And here i am still. Crying about it. And you’ll never read this. And if you do, i hope you respond.

The worst part is that i am sorry i said any of this. i know i mean it, but i am sorry because my heart is still pumping blood to my body which is sending oxygen to my brain which is telling me that it is okay to still want you to be happy.