I used to write letters. To family, close friends, occasionally lovers. It’s been a long time since I bothered. The last three went unanswered. It hardly seems worthwhile to pull out the stationary and fill my fountain pen for a long silence.
Some letters aren’t meant to be read. They’re just a place to say the things one can’t or shouldn’t say aloud. Angry letters, frightened ones, letters to the dead. It’s a form of processing, rarely rational, often ugly. It would be mad to send them, and I never have. This one… it wasn’t worthwhile to pull out the stationary, fill my pen, so it may as well end up here. It is not rational. It is ugly. I don’t much care.
I fucked a girl you can’t stand. Told her “don’t touch me” and dared her to think of what I might do if she did. Shoved her back with high heels and delighted in the way she leaned into me and not away. I made her beg, loudly, for the privilege of eating me out. There were ten people watching, maybe more. I asked them to critique her pleas, made her try over and over until she got it right.
I was trying to cleanse the palate, rid my nerves of the want of you. Her hands are small. Her lips–everything about her is soft and round and delicate. Nothing rough. Nothing that can hurt me. Nothing like you at all. I jerked her by the hair, felt her moan, arched my back and closed my eyes.
I came thinking of you growling “come for me” in my ear. I didn’t tell her that was why I pushed her away.
I want to say “fuck you,” but I can’t.
I want to fuck you. I can’t do that either.
There’s so much that I can’t do, or say, or believe. You said you were afraid so many times. Of fucking this up, of saying the wrong thing, of being wrong. I understood. I was afraid too. You said you didn’t want me to go. I believed you. You never did say you wanted me to stay. I thought this was caution. I never said I wanted to stay, either. You were important. Are important. Enough so that I was willing to wait.
You fucked up. You didn’t make a mistake. You made a choice. Over and over you chose secrets and lies and I don’t know why. I wasn’t afraid when I was with you, of anything but myself. Now I’m afraid that all your lies were somehow my fault. I’m afraid that I’d let you do it again. All the fear I should have had, would have had with anyone else, is crashing through the levees and I can’t do anything but let it come.
I wish you could tell me why. It doesn’t matter and I won’t ask again, but God, it’s killing me not knowing. I’m wounded. That’s fine. It’s happened before, more severely and more often than I care to admit. It makes one adept at closing wounds. This one is held open. I’m digging through muscle and gore as if you might have left some hint of your motive there. You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Some horrible parody of faith is telling me to keep looking anyway.
I forgive you. For all of it. You don’t deserve it.