I will never see or speak to you again. That is, undoubtedly, a good thing. I do not want you anywhere near me, now or ever. After I left you, even being in the same city – with 150,000 other people – felt too close.
There are so many things I want to ask you, though I know I will never get the chance. Things I still don’t understand, can’t make sense of. It’s six years since I left, and I am still picking up the pieces. Still unpicking, untangling, rebuilding, relearning. You could give me answers, but we both know you won’t.
I want to ask you what you were thinking. I was so young. A legal adult, yes, but far too young and far too broken to fully understand what I was getting into with you. I want to ask you why you couldn’t be the responsible fucking adult and walk away.
I want to ask you why you laid so much responsibility at my feet. When you made my youth, my body, my adoration a salve for your bruised ego, did you know what an impossible corner that put me in?
I want to ask you if you ever believed the things you said in the beginning, or if you only placed me on the pedestal so you could blame me when I inevitably toppled off? I’m not sure which would be worse.
I want to ask if you ever heard a word I told you.
I want to ask you who you thought I was. You always told me I might be able to be something extraordinary, if only I’d let you shape me like an artist chipping away at marble. What I understand now is that I always had that potential inside me, and it had nothing to do with you. Did you see that, too? Did it scare you? I want to ask you if you always knew I’d grow up and outgrow you and walk away someday.
I want to ask you how you got so quickly and so completely in my head. Was it intentional? Calculated? Was it a challenge, or do mind-games just come naturally to you?
I want to ask you if there have been others. How many? Do you have a replacement for me, some other naive young woman you can seduce, ensnare, tame, blame, destroy? What have you told her about me? Am I the devil incarnate, the one whose name you’ll throw at her as a comparison when she steps out of line? Am I the one who fucked you up? Do you blame me for the way you treat her?
Most of all, I want to ask if you regret any of it. If you have any sense of the havoc you wreaked, the damage you caused, the scars you left. I want to ask you if you enjoyed breaking me as much as it seems like you did.
Do you find my work valuable? Buying me a coffee is a great way to keep the blog going!