My love,

I fell in love with you when I was young.
I remember that you first came to me when I held a hunting knife in my hand,
In front of a 3 ½ by 4 foot mirror.
You found me in the blood that stained my arms.
You came to me, initially, in sets of three.
I was eleven when you came to me.

It was December, I remember, when people found out I loved you.
My cousin asked about the red marks you leave on my arms,
I yanked my sleeve up in fear and responded “It’s just the cat.”
I never wanted to admit I had fallen in love with the most terrifying thing I could imagine.

The kids at school found out about you around this time-
I’d left my hoodie at home, and I couldn’t wear a coat to classes.
Everyone saw your aftermath.
I am surprised the counselor did not call me in to talk about you.

My love,

You had my aunt so angry with me she started to abuse me,
I remember her screaming at me getting worse every time she found out I had relapsed-
How she got more irritable.
I know that in the beginning she meant well-
But eventually, she just started trying to permanently hospitalize me.

You made her believe I was a freak, darling.

My love,

You found me in more ways as the years went on,
You started to mess with my body image and force down my food intake,
And then you forced my teeth to find my leg in a hospital bathroom
because I couldn’t take you back to your roots
Those roots where I held a four inch blade in my hand in a tiny bathroom
In front of the widest bathroom mirror I had ever seen,
Next to a towel clad window-

You eventually made me bruise myself to the point where I had dark brown splotches over my thighs for two and a half weeks.

My love,
I have loved you for five years this coming October.
It’s odd, thinking we’ve been together this long.
I still remember, vaguely, what we looked like together that first time-
I still see your ghost on my arms.

It’s been a month since the last time I’ve talked to you fully,
I’m not counting the days you whisper in my ears and I pull at my hair, you see,
But I can still see the last time we talked.
It’s the pink little mark down the center of my wrist that reminds me we were ever lovers,
And I’m terrified I’m coming back to you worse than ever.

My love,

You scare me.
I mean it. You genuinely scare me,
Because you make me feel so much better for a few hours until I realize I have to get undressed in front of people,
Because I don’t just have a room to myself anymore.

I have been found out about loving you seven times this last year alone from adults.
But I got smarter than most people.
I hide them in better places,
Scar up my hip bones and hiss whenever I move the wrong way
Or have to peel my clothes from the little marks you leave.

My love,

I love you.
I hate what you do but I love you.
I love that you make me feel better for a few minutes,
But I hate when everything goes downhill five minutes later.

I love you.
I’m sorry.