Bo, I’ve just been Playing Pretend.
Putting on make-up and brushing my hair. Putting on dresses and smiling. Faking.

Dear, I wish I could say you’ve replaced the past, but all I can say is I hate me.

I’m dragging you about. Breaking your heart one atrium at a time. I’m putting you in his place, taking you to our old haunts.
Truthfully, I hate the product in your hair. I despise the nick-name “boo.” I could care less about champagne and “fine dining.” I wish you read more than non-fiction. I want you to laugh at my cheesy jokes. I wish you’d gotten upset when I told you about the boy. You claim to be free, but you’re more caged than me. Worry worry worry. About one word answers,  about slow responses, about me, about the non-existent us.

I’m offering apologies, because I never told you. I’m sorry, dear, but the way you offer me your cheek offends me. The way you put my hand on your leg repulses me. Your damp fist in mine, makes me reach for hand sanitizer. Your love for eighties fashion causes me to worry for your sanity. Your style drives me crazy. I want band shirts, and thrift stores, but you want quality over quantity. I want fifty-seven fifty cent skirts that I’ll wear once.

I’m tired of playing happy for you. I’m sick of being sweet.

I was in it because you were interesting, now I’m in it for the drugs.

I’m avoiding your gaze more. Hoping you don’t see the things I do, because dear, I’m afraid to be alone.

Honestly, sweetheart, your hands get me nowhere. Every touch is just that. I’m sorry dear, but your kiss stops at my lips. I apologize love, but you’re not in my head. Or my heart. You’re just a placeholder.

You’re me trying to find solution.

Try, try, trying to find the answers. Trying to find the cure.

And failing.

Miserably.

All I’ve figured out, is I can’t stop looking left, when you’re sitting to my right. All I know is kissing you feels like cheating. All I know is I can’t get him out of my brain. All I wish is that I would have fought harder. All I see is how us ending has pulled him further from the surface. All I can worry about is his masochism.

Darling, I’m sorry, but I’m dead weight. I have nothing left to give you.