This will be the last stranger post dedicated to you because I’m shifting this section for actual strangers and you aren’t that for me anymore. I know you too well now, unfortunately. I’ll still write you your letters, after all, I promised a 100 but it’ll be under a different name.
Why am I so messed up? No, this won’t be another self-loathing rant about myself. This letter is to you and how much I like hurting you.
Yes, you read that right. I keep hurting you and you keep on loving me. I’m using the word ‘love’ which I don’t casually do and never in regard to myself. But in your case I know. I know it because I see it every time I close my eyes.
The look you had the day you told me you loved me in the only manner you could, holding my hand with music playing. I remember the look on your face, it was one of desperation and longing with your glossy eyes and sweaty hands and yet you were so sure.
I also remember my answer and how much it hurt you. But I liked saying No as much as I like saying No now. I like hurting you and watching you keep on loving me. There’s a sadist in me that derives great pleasure from it.
Surprised to hear the naked truth?
Well, darling, I am absolutely not what you think I am. If I was half as good as you think I am, I’d be twice as good as I really am.
I remember your face on the day you thought you were losing me. The same face with the longing, desperation, helplessness and the glossy eyes and sweaty palms.
I also remember my indifference.
What can I say? It makes me feel good about myself. But do you really want someone like that in YOUR life?
I bring misery to people who get close to me. When I say I’m twisted, I mean it in the truest senses.
And Rock bottom is my hometown. People keep on coming and going, throwing pebbles in or taking one out. But I don’t let anyone make it THEIR home. I don’t need tenants or neighbours or anyone to share the space with. It is MINE.
Find your own rock bottom if you want but don’t invade my messed up space.
And that is what I like about you. You don’t come to my home. You keep taking me out of it. But at the end of the day, THAT is where I belong and I carry the pebbles with me wherever I go. They’re in the pockets of my ripped jeans. They don’t leave space for you.
But all of that doesn’t faze you. You keep on loving me, I keep on hurting you. You like what we have. You like what we do as long as we are together. So I take myself away from you and watch you convulse in the darkness with a smirk on my face because that is what I do.
I have seen you happy, angry, bored, asleep, worried, never sad though. But THAT look, the one of utter hopelessness, I like looking at it so much that I see it every time I see you. I see it beneath your skin just waiting to come out and I want to bring it out of hiding.
It would be so much easier to stop all this. To cut you off. To maybe be a good enough liar and make you believe differently about what I feel.
But I don’t want to. This mess I made is all my doing and it feels so so good.
I think I may be a masochist too because I love over thinking about it, feeling bad and then doing the same shit again. I tell myself how wonderful it would be for everyone if I had said YES that day, despite every inch of my being and everyone I care about telling me otherwise. But then I wouldn’t have seen that face, the face I didn’t even know you had. And I want to keep on seeing it. So I’ll keep on creating a mess because I am that twisted.
Now it’s up to you to decide what YOU want.
This is one letter I WANT you to find and I’ll make sure you do read and understand it.