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Before I begin, I want you to clearly understand that this isn’t about you.
This isn’t about you, because you’re not the only one. This isn’t about you, because you hardly left any scars on me. I do write about love, but sorry, you’re not worth a whole post.
This is an open letter to all of you.
This is to all of you that fell in love, a little too soon, a little too fast. You, who fell hard; you, who couldn’t stop thinking about me; you, who thought I was the one.
You thought we were meant to be. You thought this was going to be different. You waited for me to open up, to show my true self.
But how foolish were you to not realize that I am a human, after all?
Instead of rolling my eyes while we made love, you found me rolling my eyes at you whenever you fucked up. Instead of philosophical posts and being the spiritual soul, you found me worrying about trivialities. Instead of me looking up with puppy dog eyes to please you, you found me longing for your emotional investment.
I wasn’t what you wanted me to be, whatever that was.
I resembled too much of your past girls. Jealous, petty, insecure, unhappy, worrisome, anxious. I was starting to get on your nerve—what happened to that carefree girl that you lost your heart to? She was so spontaneous, so fun. She could have a conversation about anything, and laugh at anything you said.
You know, I used to blame myself for it.
Actually, I think I might still do. I wonder if my true self is just not worth being committed to. I wonder if my true self is boring. I wonder if I should always hide myself because it seems like the moment I open up, you retreat back to your fort. You would be stationed in your habits of singlehood, and my words, my actions, my needs felt like bullets to you, didn’t they? You felt attacked, didn’t you?
So you decided to raise the white flag. We aren’t good together, you decide. We should not be together, you announce. To you, we are signing a declaration of peace, but really, it’s more like you’ve yet once again conquered my land, on your terms.
The sex was great, wasn’t it?
You wanted me to open up, because my emotional trauma made me more interesting, not because you were ready to take responsibility for my anxiety and panic attacks. You wanted me to open up, because you wanted access to my deepest secrets, just like how you wanted to climb the crevices between my legs, but not because you wanted to spiritually connect.
I let go, because I now understand that there’s always the next one. I let you go, because I now know you’re not worth sacrificing myself for. And to you, that moment is tantalizing because you realize that I am actually no longer there for you. I am desirable, yet again.
But it’s okay. I’m here to tell you that you’re not actually in love with me. I’m here to let you know that your infatuation will soon come to an end. I think I’ll be okay, too. Actually, I am already okay.
Because this is about me. This is about my needs to be seen as a woman full of potential and of damage. This is about how I always give more than I should, and sometimes people like you mistake kindness for weakness, but that’s really what makes me beautiful. This is about me coming to a realization that I fucking deserve better.
This is an open letter to all of you. I want you to understand that whatever we had is a lesson I needed to flourish. That this is so I learn how to be strong in my vulnerability. That I am worthy just as I am, and if you can’t accommodate that, I shouldn’t have to break my back trying to excuse you.
And really, I’m glad things are this way. There’s always better sex anyway.
Always with love,