Dear SD,
You’re always like an SD card slotting into my time with your own
version of memories – overwriting the good ones; rewriting the rest
until they feel like yours. You always chipping in at the worst
moments – slipping in like a thief of thought, leaving me as hollow
as an empty crisp packet. You’ve mastered the art of inaction –
teaching me to discard what matters, to throw away my intentions
into the wind until I’m caught in the sour howl of your shouting
breeze. And when I think I’ve finally got it all figured out, you arrive,
tilting your head, whispering, "Are you sure, my love?"
It’s a question that weighs me down by ounces; as you’re a mistress
who never needs to raise her voice to pin me in place. You’ve been
the needle that keeps me stuck in this bundle of hay, telling me it’s
better to stay, pretending everything’s okay. "Try again another
day," you say – but another day just becomes the next day,
just other days, hey?
And in the meantime, you hold all the orders, dictating how I move,
and how I don’t move. But I shouldn’t be listening to you – putting
you ahead of myself, when really, you’ve only been living rent-free in
my head, making my mind your house, cluttering it until I forget to
chase you out. You bring nothing but stillness – no progress, no
movement, just a hypnotic sway of hips tempting me to sit, to stay,
and to watch life from the window.
No more. Your rent is overdue. Your words hold no truth. Hush
your lips, still those hips – I’m done letting you make my steps
your property. It’s not you, it’s me – for letting you be you to me.
We aren’t meant to be.
Goodbye – Self-doubt...
Sincerely, insincerely signed,
Your ex-lover.