Dear Sprinkles, 

I forgive you for not feeling the same way I do, for not being moved by the thought of me as I was by the thought of you. Although you made me believe that you did.

I forgive you for not being anxious to see me, for not counting the minutes until you were with me. I forgive you for not shouting my name to the wind, asking me to come back.

I forgive you for not thinking of me when you saw a flower, when a butterfly passed by, or simply when the moon was healing the universe.

I forgive you for not noticing that on more than one occasion I dressed up for you, for making my life hell just for wanting to look nice enough to exist fully for a minute. For not noticing that my eyes couldn't leave your face and my heart wouldn't stop beating at the mere thought of you.

I forgive you for all those times you chose to stay away from me claiming it was just so you wouldn't hurt me, not knowing that doing so caused more wounds. For making me listen to your incessant whining and obsession about not getting your way, when acting like yourself was the exact reason you weren't getting it. 

I forgive myself for thinking it was you, for dreaming of you by my side, for feeling like it was you I'd been waiting for. I forgive myself for giving you my thoughts, for having dedicated my sleepless nights and more than a few verses to you. Edited by you, of course. Otherwise, it was fine (to you) to make me never want to create another damn thing again. I learned quickly that my brain held World War 25. I forgive myself for not expressing more anger every time we created and you tore it apart out of whatever you call it; jealousy, fear, just being weird - who the hell knows.

I forgive myself for giving you my art, for shedding tears in your name, for longing for your skin, your hugs and kisses. I forgive myself for searching for myself in your gaze and waiting for you to call me yours. For believing you when you did and then not standing my ground when you subsequently took it back before the air you breathed the words out could leave the room.

I forgive myself for having mistaken myself for your person. If you loved me, really loved me, it wouldn’t have sounded like chaotic absence. Love does not study where to wound, does not rehearse silences, does not leave someone bleeding into the bottomless chasm of your ego.

All I had to do was tell one person who you really were, and my eyes were taped open. Your own best friend knew what you were capable of, "What if he killed you?" Using my abuse against me, the last straw. "Your mother said you were crazy."

Love. It doesn't drive you to brink of insanity. It does not ever leave you wondering what just happened, because what do you mean that you're packing your shit and leaving for the seventh time because I asked you what you were planning to do with a 12 pack of ginger ale that has been next to the bed, my bed - not yours, for three months?

If you loved me, you would not have needed my confusion to feel powerful, or my longing to feel chosen. So, if the word love ever passed your lips, it must have been wearing hatred’s hat. Because only something that partially despises you would stay while destroying, touch while withholding, promise while erasing. Cheat while claiming you were in love.

I don’t think you loved me. I think you loved what I gave and hated what I needed. You took everything that I loved about myself and you murdered it with a smile. And that is not love that is consumption. Yet there were times that if loving you killed me, then I welcomed death, if it comes with your voice.

I thought time with you would save me from facing myself. If I could just love you right, be patient enough, small enough, perfect enough, you'd stay. It was a never-ending path of eggshells and Legos, hidden by the breadcrumbs I dropped during our best moments, praying we'd find our way back.

I made your brokenness my religion, your distance - my proof I was never enough. Every time you pulled away, I didn't see a hurt boy protecting himself. I saw everyone I have ever loved leaving me all over again.

So, I performed.

The good girl who made sure to never ask for too much. Who swallowed her needs like razor blades to keep the peace. Who built herself up before you existed in her orbit and then pretended she was fine with you turning into Godzilla and undoing years' worth of work. Who bent herself into shapes hoping "this time".

Maybe this time...

She'll finally be chosen.

I stayed silent when I wanted to scream, smiled when I was breaking, made myself convenient, easy, undemanding. Because confrontation meant you might leave. I knew it was killing me and I never stopped wishing it would. The visions I would wake up with. Praying you'd leave so I could pack your stuff and be rid of you. Not seeing a way out other than to remove myself from the planet.

And leaving would confirm what I already believed; that I was never worth staying for. But all that anger I feel towards you? It isn't about you; it was rage at myself for staying when every cell in my body begged me to leave.

For making myself so small I disappeared. For abandoning the little girl inside me who needed me to finally choose her. She's furious at me. For choosing you; another emotionally erratic, addicted, unavailable, to then all-consuming man instead of her.

For believing you when you said my love was your medicine. I see it now. You might have been the villain I needed all along. You ran from intimacy because the closeness was never real, a mask you held until your arm got tired. I chased it because your absence felt like death. Since we're being honest, it still does.

Two wounded people. Same pain. Same rusted armor ready to battle. I'm not running anymore. You cracked me open enough to finally see I was only ever trying to outrun my grief. But when it's the size of King Kong, well you know the rest of that plot. I just had bigger things to focus on, and you were something I was already used to.

The shame that comes with feeling not enough. A lifetime of inadequacy. Screw every last bit of it. I'm choosing her. The little girl in the pink dress. The one I left behind every time your disrespect was louder. They say that every cell in the human body is replaced in seven years. It is comforting to know that one day I will have a body that you have never touched. 

This isn't goodbye. This is me coming home to myself.

Sincerely, The Bitch Who Turned You In.

P.S., maybe we really are still on that mountain top.