A Letter To My Stalker

I thought ours was a star-crossed romance.

My sweet,

The fluctuation of our relationship was more tumultuous than the first spacecraft to ever land on the moon. Due to a mutual fear of being lonely, we became fast friends. Your world enveloped mine. Before I knew it, I was living, breathing, thinking you every microsecond of my meagre existence. How it started was nothing like it ended. I thought ours was a star-crossed romance. Boy, have I never been more wrong.

When we first met, you didn’t have many friends. At least, it didn’t appear that way from the outside looking in. I saw you, by yourself, and thought immediately that I didn’t have to be alone anymore. So I brushed off the alarm bells, the red flags, and enjoyed the casual laughter of acquaintances at school. You were quirky, not crazy, and I understood that because I was the same. Others didn’t see it because others didn’t know what I knew. The allure was textbook: You were broken and I wanted to fix you. That’s probably what it ultimately comes down to. I wanted to pick up your tattered jigsaw pieces and put together a whole new puzzle. One of us. Together. But I didn’t challenge you, I emulated you. Too fearful that you would leave. So you ended up changing me.

And we played our games of pretend together. The cat and mouse chase that became something far more revoltingly sinister than I would realise. Obsession. Lust. Greed. I said no. No no no. But you weren’t used to hearing that, I suppose. You chalked up my suspicions, my concerns, my hesitance as something to joke about the next day. After I saw you. Lurking behind me. A shadow. A devil. A friend.

You weren’t always there, physically. But you peeled the layers of my brain and burrowed into the tissue, nestling in to call my head home. And you fucked with my head so many times, I was jarred from the reality of everyday school to this fantastical enticing of a dysfunctional toxic relationship. It’s funny. Relationship. That’s what we had, like it or not. We did everything couples did, essentially. Whether it was clandestine touches, passing secret notes, bickering. But when I fought back, be it with my words or my fists, something always came back to enforce your domain over me. Shackled to the guilt of breaking your trust, I let you break me. And now you want back in.

No.

I will never be scared of you. You’ve left seeds of mistrust that continue to be fruitful but I will never give you the power to hurt me again. Not anymore. No matter the consequences. Giving into you was one of the worse decisions I have ever made but enough time has passed for me to wake up to what you emotionally, mentally and physically put me through and know that I deserve better. I have a voice that won’t be crushed by you, or any man, ever.

A Letter To My Former Best Friend

After seven years friends are said to become family. It’s been twelve.
But now, I’m not so sure.

My sweet,

For twelve years we have had the most complex of relationships. We were childhood rivals, sweethearts, frenemies. We shared ugly words, we touched tongues and lips, we made amicable chitchat. Adolescence hasn’t helped to unblur the distinctions of what category we fall under, to this day. It’s difficult to attempt to unspool the history that’s laid out between us – miles and miles of history carved by our past. That’s probably why it has taken me this long to write this. In the past I’ve sat down to ready pages and ready pens, only to stand up to unused pages and unused pens.

We’ve drifted. Grown apart. Gone separate ways. Let’s not sugar coat it. It’s the truth. And I hardly doubt you care much. You wouldn’t have let it happen if you did. But the same can be argued for me. The relationship was never on equal footing. I needed you more than you needed me. You relied on that imbalance of power to keep me around. Begging for your attention, your time.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom before he showed up. And I really only have myself to blame for inviting him into our lives. The deal was made and I held up my end. Like I expected you to. But you didn’t because you couldn’t. It’s not in you to be selfless. That may be harsh but it’s what this past decade has taught me. There was a prize awaiting you when I completed my end of our bargain. Him. I talked to him for you but you didn’t do the same for me. And once he was as infatuated with you as I had been, the oscillation into madness burned quicker and brighter than a Roman candle.

One by one he replaced the people in your life. Your acquaintances, your family members, your friends. Me. I shed tears in your room, worried it would happen months before it became serious, and you still allowed him to envelop your life. Of course I lashed out. He had stolen away the one person I always wanted to be around. Your time was now his time and I confused jealousy over you with romantic feelings for him and I destroyed one of the most special moments in your life. For that, I’m sorry. I’m also deeply sorry for trying to steal him away from you. In front of you, behind your back, anytime and anyplace I could try. But he never wavered. And I’m glad. Because you’re happy. Happier now than you ever were with me. I can’t continue to stand in the way of that. Realising it, I stopped. I tried to just be his friend and continue to be your best friend. But it was so clear to me, as it had been with everyone else in your life, that no one would stand in the way of you two. Who was I to try?

What I didn’t expect was for you to let me go without a fight. You reached out once, twice, and that was it. A friendship spanning a decade and two years in the dirt. But I guess it’s clear how much I put into the relationship. You still have my clothes, my presents, my memories. I’m not sure what I have left of you, or what I even want from you anymore. Friendship? I have friends I can truly count on now. One call and they’re here for me. I’m not sure I ever even had you like you had me. I suppose only time, as it continues to carve out our future, will tell what happens to us. To you. And to me.

A Letter To My First Ex-Boyfriend

I wrote him my first love letter and a week after he broke up with me,
my first hate letter.

My Sweet,

I hope you choke when you tell your next squeeze how much you love his smile, his way with words and his perfect cock. Picking at my scabs until you left them bleeding and gaping wide open in the scorching sun, you lied to me. Something about you disillusioned me. Your net was cast and I was trapped in the squirming enclosure of your wretched spell.

Pouring out these spiteful words now has made me realise how awful you were to me. Truly, truly fucking awful. You made me believe I was something valuable, a diamond in the rough that sparked more than just your casual interest. Thus, you wandered out of your introverted shell and dared to go to the lapping waters that brought us together. I wasted no time leaping across the sand into your arms, but not once did you clue me in to your hesitance. You let me be blind and misguided.

And you still don’t know me. You didn’t bother getting to know me, disinterested in pushing past your romanticised concept of obtaining a boyfriend; owning someone and their complete undivided attention. Until you got bored. You scratched at my skin and tugged at my flesh but you did not dare cradle my bones. You created a deception, a falsehood of trust and reliability and tenderness that you decided had expired long ago.

I hate you for making me believe I could be your first.

Not once did you even for the utmost split of split seconds consider me your first love. I was your first kiss. That was it. Bashfully, you told me you didn’t want to think about sleeping with anyone but me: I wish that could have been the truth. I quake to my very core thinking you will compare this heap of ashes to your romantic forthcomings, and just the mere suggestion of anyone else tasting the skin I tasted makes me boil with rage. Why do I still want someone who doesn’t want me?

It wasn’t working. More time to yourself. Spending too much time on your phone and not reading or going out as often on as many walks alone. Getting too close to someone so quickly. Not ready. Awkward and uncomfortable.

You let me believe so many things that now have fruitlessly wilted. And the worst of all is that I miss you, I still want you and not being with you shreds my insides like a starved lion shreds a carcass. Tendons slit and nerves askew! You’ve carved me up and laid me out for dinner, pretty boy, now I hope you choke on my mutilated bones.