the dead poet's lover

an open letter to the one who used me as stitches to his wound.

Dear a.g.,

It's been almost a year, and I was surprised you even called. I distinctly remember our fight last February—the end of our story. After two months, I heard you got into loving another girl. And I became jealous, but who am I to feel that anyway? We were never lovers, we never got to the point of being one.

But I did love you, and you claimed to love me. So, in some way, that gives me the right to cry over your choice of picking her over me. A million times my friends told me that I was better, but I know I wasn't. If I was, why would you choose her over me?

That same girl broke your heart 2 days ago. You called on a monday night, and I remember you crying over the phone telling me you broke it off with her because it was getting too toxic for you to handle. That you needed me. That you thought about running back to me all the times you got into a fight. I remember crying that night because you finally called me after the longest time of not even looking me in the eye—but the reason was painful. You still called because of her. Because you needed someone to ease the pain and it was my face that immediately comes into your mind. I was stupid. I let you use me. I went as far as pretending to be her for you for a day.

This was proof that I still loved you.

But then I realized that the more I answer your calls, the further I walk away from my happiness. Tear stained sheets seemed more expectant every time I wake up in the morning. I talk with a raspy voice when I try to converse with someone. Hell, I can barely see with all the tears welling in my eyes whenever I see your name on the screen of my phone.

So, this is my last message to you. I know that leaving you was the hardest part of my life, but loving you wasn't the easiest as well. I endured it because I had the assurance of someone loving me back; I don't have it now. I know you still love her and that you still think about sneaking out at night just to beg on your knees to let her take you back. I know that you still scream at the heavens demanding answers on why your relationship turned to ruin. I'm sorry you're feeling this pain, and I want to make it go away. But I can't anymore, because I'm trying to heal myself. My scars are bleeding, and you're not the one that will be stitching it just to cut it up again. I'll learn to do it by myself. Sure, I may hurt myself in the process—but it's worth it if it means loving myself as a whole new person again.

All the love, M.