I know you don't read this because you don't yet love me. I know that if you read this you would love me.
You would know that you are just like me.
You would be scared that you are just like me.
When I said I loved you, I was extrapolating. I expected more of you.
I am ten years and one month and one day older than you.
You are just like me.
Just like my mother is just like me even though she is thirty-three years, two months, and thirteen days older than me.
I may have told you this, but my perfect day used to consist of imagining myself at age 29, just getting off of the 2-10 shift at the nearest convenience store and sitting on our back porch in florida's left coast and listening to van morrison. You actually wouldn't have had to be there. You could have been off with the friends you had met in our new town.
Your lustre has worn a bit thin with me. At first, you seemed to be a wordsmith - you seemed to be of calibre. Lately, I have thought that your lies were correct in being told. I wouldn't have wanted to love you if you hadn't been a quoter of wilde. I wouldn't have loved you if you hadn't pretended to understand every nuance of my intelligence. I was sending coded messages to you, and you told me you received them.
But you didn't did you?
I dislike your lies. I feel it wastes our time. I didn't lie. I just smiled and accepted your entire being. I wanted to believe you. I thought maybe you were the next one. I thought you would knock on the door and be a fabulous fun time. I didn't want you to write the rossetta stone for me. I wanted you to fuck me and to laugh with me and to distract me from the pain in my life.
I wanted you to be sun.
I can't say you haven't inspired me. I can't say that. I would never say that. I like you. That is true. I have never lied to you.
When I said that I think you may be someone who changes my life, I meant it. When you said that I was someone that already changed your life - I gobbled it. I was arrogant, and i believed it.
You have taught me. You are a good teacher.
I think you are quite talented, and although your talk of work and being surprised by how the comrades aren't as talented as your little toe, amused me... I was bored with it. That is part of being young. You aren't used to the knowledge that mediocrity is rewarded. It's OK.
When you flaunted me as someone not interesting enough to enrapture you, my queenly raiment was livid. It was red with rage, but I told you that it was sad that the girl you really loved had not reciprocated your advances. I wasn't sad. I was sorry you were in pain. I wouldn't like a stranger to be in pain, but I thought you were silly.
You had/have passed me up. I can understand that you need to pretend that a part of you is hidden from me.
When you judged me, it flattened me.
You don't know me. I haven't hidden a thing from you. I gave you my three amperes meridian. I gave you my unflattering dork brie self. You seem to question even that. You still ask me who I am. you ask me to tell you who you are, and you think you don't.
Sweet child, you are talking to the master. I have been you. I am you. I have done what you are doing a billion times.
It should amuse me. I should laugh and toss my thirty-three year old head that you have tried to best me - that you hoodwinked me.
Is it obvious that the most gratifying thing would be for me to win you? I would love to whip you into a fervor and have you basking at my feet and at my fee.
Is that called revenge?
See, I call things by their name. We have named things. I'm sorry you aren't fascinated with me. It would have been much easier that way. I could have sucked your love and given you much in return.