A love letter, but not really.

9/1/16

I’m waiting for the moment you say you’re sorry, months from now, when I’ve finally had the energy to transform into someone new and someone better.
Waiting for that moment so I can laugh and brag about how lovely my life has become without a parasite always attached to my core.
So I can tell you how much I’ve grown to love myself without you.
The way I see it, there’s a puzzled look on your face right after I finish the “Fuck you.” With a period instead of rambling forward with a list of reasons why.
And I’ll smile while I sip my iced mocha in the September breeze and watch you walk away.
It’s been months since I’ve heard from you, and I won’t allow myself to even pretend to care… you obviously couldn’t pretend long enough to send me even a heartfelt
“I care about you, but I’m fearful of what’s to come so I’ll act like you don’t exist until you write an angry poem about me, and then I’ll come running back and tell you I won’t do it again. And then I will, because I’m an incredibly immature asshole.”
I promised I’d always be honest with you and I’m damn-right going to hold myself to it.
I mean it when I say I wish you well.
You’ve taught me to love myself enough to let go of people who treat me like the one they want to talk to only when they’ve run out of better options.
Yes, I get that you’re doing the best you can with what you know right now.
I told you it doesn’t make you a bad person, which is true, but the part I left out is the part I hope you learn from.
I hope you learn from your emotions.
I hope you learn not to treat others like they don’t matter just because you’re hurting.
And I also hope you read this not-so-poetic-angry-poem.
The seasons are changing, and I’m changing with them.

Love always, Rach.