Dear You,

I write from my heart. Deep down I hope my words reach you beyond the scattered pieces, beyond the memory torn apart. I bear you no ill will, but I am distraught. I was accustomed to a certain way of living. I was both settled and secure, only for it all to be upturned in a moment, and without a chance to catch my breath. I believed in infinity, even used to dream; perfection was a reality, or so I thought.

The naive, uneducated, unintelligent being that I once was has now been made clear. I was fooled by my own comfort. Again, I bear you no ill will, but what am I to think, what am I to feel? When left like a gutted swine, or a fish thrust upon the lands to gasp and flounder, there is only the struggle and the pain as the body tries to regain what it once lost. The heart and the mind do the same. And here I am, writing all these words in vain. I don’t mean to bear you ill will, but You, sweet Dear You, I am upset. I am bothered that there is no pause, no lost speech, no sign of regret. To simply take, and have your fill. Like a thief you’ve become, and it is from me that you decided to steal.

Dear You, I mean no harm even though my bitter words have lost their charm. I am merely expressing myself, not to You, but to me. Oh how I love the taste of the echoed resentment and venting the non-hatred that’s lingering. Would you happen to not find that just sickening? Believe me, there is not an instant where my stomach does not churn, or the very core of my soul does not burn with all its rage. Oh dear, Dear You, I hope you see the wicked creature that bears your name, and know that it is yours. It will live and grow, with or without you. Standing, breathing, and developing as the reflection of your likeness that it is. I will care for it, foster it, and nurture it in all the ways I know you never will.

My Dearest You, I do not mean Ill.