I’ve written you so many letters. I’ve written you odes, I’ve transcribed wishes and paintings and prints that were silkscreened in my mind and I’ve written stories inspired by both how much I love you, and how much I fucking hate you, and I want you to know that I wrote more words and used up more pages about you than I have about anyone else. And I’ve since looked back on my life and realized something that is cliched and social media-laden and corny and worn-out but that will always be true: we accept the love we think we deserve. I hated being used by you and tortured by you and jerked around by you. And right to the very very end of our time (and it is the very very end, after all) you continued to do that, regardless of your half-hearted, insincere apologies. Your ridiculously over-bloated ego (which I’ve fed, hence why it’s probably still there – it hasn’t had a chance to become deflated yet because of just how often and how much it was fed by me) implies that you loved treating me the way you did. You wished for it to continue and you wished to be the one who ended it even though it was me. And so, So-and-So, here we are. You’re so incredibly full of yourself, you think I’m writing this because I love you. And you’re wrong: I’m writing this because I don’t. I’m writing this because I want to tell you I’ve found love that I actually deserve and know I deserve and it’s better than any little table scrap you ever gave me, and I feel fuller and more alive and more real and whole than you ever made me feel. There was a time in my life when I thought you were the end-all and be-all of my life, and I was certain we were the people who were right at the wrong time. And I want to admit something to you: I was right about so many things I thought and felt and realized about you. Except that. You couldn’t be more wrong for me. You couldn’t be more poisonous and vile and cruel and cold and horrible. You couldn’t be. You are a pig and a villain and a crook who stole almost two years of my life, and you loved every second of it, and you’re not sorry at all. And I have found the most amazing person in the world to share things with that means so much more than sharing those things with you.
I hope you die alone.