To the boy who broke my heart before I was old enough to heal from it,
I don’t know if I’ve forgiven you
Though I no longer think of you…
Every now and then, I lose consciousness to your hands once more
And your breath races down my neck,
The pain then leaks into my fingertips, as if it’s home.
It isn’t hard to brush it away, though
Like a speck of dirt on my sweater.
Small, gross, and not worth my time.
To me, our relationship was dirt.
Small, gross, and not worth my time.
Therefore, this letter isn’t too terribly hard for me to write,
But I wrote you to confess that you left me scarred.
You see, your home was my jail cell
Your words my punishment
Our relationship was a trial for a crime I never committed.
I felt lost in you.
You were a never-ending maze,
And I a hungry rat that was never quite smart enough to find the exit.
But…you forgot that even a rat realizes when their search is fruitless.
My old friend, this letter is to tell you that my scars look good on me.
And the rumors that spread like disease once I finally left you
Have built up my immune system.
Filth, grime,
Dirt and rats,
Can’t make me sick like before.
I’ve purged you.
My malady.