Love, Lose, And Repeat

Paul,

I took ten dollars out of your wallet last time is saw you. I took it as payment. Five dollars for bus fare from the park bench you left me sitting at. The other five for the pain when you told me not to call your parents house again because you'd just hang up. I'm not an automated message you can press one to take you off the list or a telemarketer you can tell to stop calling.

I'm done with being your best kept secret, like in inside coat pocket or a faded picture in a sealed, silver locket. I took that ten dollar bill, because I want to be the girl whose getting over you, slowly, like Im climbing a snow-slick hill. To do that, I have to put away the lies, individually, like pick-up sticks. You stole my firsts from me, but I still have my youth. Still, I'd feel better if I left the ones we touched with poison with the antidotal truth.

I will start by telling your Chemistry class we weren't holding hands on a dare and that you gave me the bruise, bridging across my neck, that I hid with red scarves. Maybe, on the bus, I'll tell the driver about our late drives in your moms Buick. Remember, when you told me about your parents divorce and it even made you cry, and you had to pull over to wipe your eyes--remember?

Ill write addresses down, to our secret spots, and I will give them to your teachers. The lake house the Lander's lived in before they moved and the shed in my parent's backyard where you took me for my first time. The time you took from me, meaningless like those minutes to the clock.

I'll tell the freshman girls you go after during swim try-outs how it feels to be warmed by you, all over, five minutes after foreplay. I'll tell them you cant unclasp bras without help or the fetishes you have about leather belts. I'll give away all your lines, so by the time you start slipping out sexual syllables--they are halfway through slapping you.

I might have trouble deciding who to tell next, so maybe ill let my dad see the bottom of my trash that we cluttered with square, colored wrappers (lubricated for his pleasure). Dad might not be so happy to see that, Paul and i'm not really sure what he will do. But, he is still on parole so I am sure he will think it through and maybe he will go easy on you.

Your mom might faint when I tell her how many girls you've taken to Dr. Dillinger (I'll show her my file if she doesn't believe me). She might be disappointed that I cant count that number on two hands.

Whose next? Oh, now this will be fun--my very last one to tell. Now, I know your girlfriend has practice in the gym at three sharp on Thursdays. Why don't I meet her in the locker room and tell her about the freckle on your inner thigh and how your mouth tastes in the mornings?

See Paul, I want my shirts back and my CDs that you blare. I want everything you took from me, because I don't think it's fair, that  I am left with all these lies and all these secrets to keep. I am what's left in the space of a bank vault that no one is allowed to see. But whatever is locked in a safe--Paul, it's always worth more then you think.

You might want to start begging for mercy because that side girl you tried to keep away but still strung along might not be as sad as you thought she was. Secrets are bad, Paul. But, I know a few--and I am not afraid to unleash them all over you. I'm not afraid of the way you fight with you eyes open and boiling, or how every moment we shared alone, you spent spoiling it by leaving.

I don't want you back, Paul. I've been left the last time by you. I just want to slip this letter into something more comfortable. I'll write your address in a coat of black ink, and i'll even spend 46 cents stamping it. When its ready to be delivered, ill leave it on a kitchen counter instead. ill forget to send it. I won't leave it in my mothers mailbox, or to drop it by the post office. Ill forget that i wrote this at all. And, tomorrow, in the hall, you'll wave and when I say your name all of your blame with slip out from under you like a rug and will think things between us are all right.

But tonight, I'll pretend I had revenge. I'll pretend the girls that flock to you, seek south for winter. I'll pretend your mother does a blood panel for herpes, hepatitis, and the clap, and your widely requested girlfriend will lend her love to a tight-end on the football field. Not because I want to take away your world like a torturing tornado takes away rusted dabri in a storm, because you may just be a growing boy from Dover. Paul, I need you to know there's a difference between rocking someone's world and just tipping it over.