A letter to the one who thinks I’m the one.


Dear man that wants to love me.

Just to say that I appreciate it. A lot. I’m not an easy woman to get along with. If I were you, I’d give it a minute or two before offering your ticker on a silver platter.

I took such a long time to mend my raspberry tart, I can’t have you take a bite and risk you chocking and spitting it back. I know that you’ll tell me that you are not like all the others. You’ll tell me that you’ll do me no harm, so crazy you are about me.

Fuck you.

They all were once madly devoted but I still found myself curled on the floor, writhing with  my angina pectoris, or kneeling, riddled with guilt, with tears of my sweetie rolling down my fingers.

I’m not sure I’m made for the coupling game. At first, it’s easy, we see our future in the eyeball of our soul mate, we swoon, and we spoon, breathing at the same rate. We believe in the thing like we’re fifteen, like in the movies. But then, through cuts, scrapes and scratches, we chip away the good and the beautiful only to leave sorrow and pain.

I fear you’ll try to change me as others did before you. Small things like the way I behave, talk or do the dishes … Your hobbies and habits will become mine, or worse, you’re going to convince me that you want the person I am, only to prove me wrong with blows of veiled criticism and disapproval.

I’m afraid we will accept each other’s way of doing to buy peace, abdicate and transform our personality. Or worse, our idiosyncrasies will drive us to yelling, all veins out, about silly stuff such as how to fold napkins.

What if I never get little tender notes from you, or worse, you lay on me of kilometers of rose colored prose until I gag?  I abhor nothingness, I loathe excess.

I fear that our sexuality will perish and only blood or famine will linger in our sheets. I’m afraid of losing the flame or to get burned. My skin still remembers relationship where I cried poor, or worse, rape.

What if, over time, our hearts pour out all affection to fill with resentment, blame and doubt? What if we get to spew vile poison so badly that we’re left shaken to the core? What if we eventually say so regrettable words that I am forced to slay what is left of us?

You’ll end up leaving, tired of me and my deep-sea journeys, or worse, I’ll plant my claws into the flesh of your chest, pecking wildly, then fleeing while your gaping thorax is rotting on the shore.

Don’t tell me not to be afraid, that we’re the same, that we’re meant to be together! Don’t tell me that, because you’re going to make me believe, you asshole!! I already hate that you’re filling me with hope. You’re there thinking you can approach me with that perfume of golden promises? You want to put your hand on the barrel of my gun and let my guard down? I fear you! God almighty that I fear the pain of love!

It’s not because we found each other that I have to lose myself, understand? I easily feel trapped and am ready for terrible violence to keep my throat from feeling the noose. If I were you, I would go on my way, I’m too much work.

Do you know why I love you? Because the scars on your soul are similar to mine. You’re tempting me. I want to succumb, to let you in…


There. I said I love you. In front of everybody. Are you happy?

No … probably not … Something in the tone, perhaps?

Yours, for now…

The «out of her wits» girl.


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