Dear Love,
You know me so well and yet not at all. It may surprise you to hear from me something so amorous, but I figured it fair enough to pay the blame where it is due. We've known each other through thick and thin, light and dark, great chance and adversity. We both know I'm not poetic; it is impossible for me to accurately paint the scene of our lives at that wonderful crossroads and show the world how very much you have affected me. But I will try my hardest.
In the beginning I had nothing and you said, "Let there be light!" My dear Love, you assumed the radiant beacon and guided me out of that bottomless pit, which is an act so unintentionally kind - so selfless - that I could never hate you as much as I try to convince myself that I do. We spent, it seemed, countless years contributing to a friendship that has not since been paralleled. You are irreplaceable in so many ways. But there was a time in our companionship that likened to the Dark Ages, and you fashioned yourself a whip to strike me for every relationship of yours that didn't last. Throughout it all - despite the verbal lashings I took in place of your innumerable boyfriends - I stayed with you, cleaned up the aftermath, ignored my own suffering, and wiped away your tears that were brought on by your very own foolishness. I took the brunt of it all, strengthened by the false hope that one day I could call you mine. The Dark Ages felt to have lasted forever and although the scars are not physical, they are still festering.
I can't help but wonder why I wasn't good enough. Why did you prefer the abuser over your best friend? Why did you share your secrets with the two-faced Janus rather than your trusted pal? Why did you tell me the party was canceled and later throw it without sending me an invitation? Was I really so worthless to you? Did I ask too much of that relationship than you were willing to provide?
Love, your mistreatment of me has taken its toll and manifested in ways equally disturbing. I find myself a manipulator like yourself. If I suspect someone of the slightest interest in me, I instill in them a false hope for a relationship I have no inclination of actually pursuing. Thereafter I leech, and I feed, from the affection they treat to me, leaving them a disgruntled, hollow husk. Much like myself. Despite how hard I've tried and how very aware I am of this vicious cycle, there is hardly anything I can do to stop it. This is compensation for the kind sentiment you refused me. Dear love, look at what you've made of me. Had you simply glanced in my direction; had you stopped tugging on the puppet's strings; had you not kicked the man while he was down; had you not cooed to the beaten puppy and suggested that things between us would soon better while, once again, lashing it with your whip. So much false hope. How did you manage it? Did you feel the slightest bit of guilt in how you treated me, the only person that loved you for you? Have you even the ability to love anyone but yourself?
Vigilance, I tell myself. Vigilance! I suppose you wouldn't know how hard it is to compare everyone to you. And aside from the Dark Ages, still there is no competition. Dates with nice girls are canceled, proposals of relationships beyond friendship are rejected by impulse, and three years later I am still very alone, still hoping that even though there are more than 5,000 miles between us there is a chance I can slip a gold band around your wedding finger. Yes, I know that we are young, giving you all the more reason to call me naive. But realize the power you have over me. Are you aware that you have the ability to make me feel entirely alone in a room filled with people?
Dear Love, I want you to know I won't be saving for that gold band anymore.
Dear Love, I don't want you to know that I still love you and fear that I always will, despite it all.
Yours truly,
Pene
