Dear Pretty Girl,
Listen to me. I know how it goes, I’ve been there. First of all, I’d like to say, I’m sorry for your loss, but I’ll get to that later. For now, you’re drinking away your sorrows because goddammit you have sorrows and you’re absolutely sure that you will never find respect and love the way you know you deserve it. You think all of this for so long and then one night you look to your right and he’s sitting there staring at you.
Or at least that is what he will call you. It will be the same night that he meets you because bold is his move and bold is what he knows he needs to be. Bold, but with a timid lining. Bold, but smooth, and as he flicks his cigarette under the bar and pretends he isn’t smoking it, he mouths something that you don’t quite understand. You think he might have called you beautiful underneath his stale breath. He did, but that won’t matter soon.
Finally, this is the man you’ve been waiting for. Pretty Girl, he moves fast, so don’t for a second think that your feet will stay on the ground for very long.
Love Sick Girl,
He is so perfect. He has taken away every fear you’ve ever had and has turned them into a calculated breath that is sure to promise you forever. The hours melt away when he speaks. Sunrise turns to sunset and you are already his. He points out the smallest details. He likes the tattoo on your shoulder and the way that you shiver when he runs his fingertips over it. He likes the backs of your knees and the way that your legs are always smooth. He tells you your toes are the cutest things he’s ever seen, because one time you pointed out that you hate your feet. He watches you put your makeup on and he smiles and tells you you’re nothing like his mother and he loves that about you. He just met you, and he loves you. He loves you.
You’ve forgotten what it feels to be sane. He knows you better than you know yourself, and for now, you’re okay with that. He is you and you are him, time is only worth anything if he is next to you, and you share things about your past, present and future that he swears he will cherish. You mean the world to him, don’t you know? Nothing before him matters now, and there will be no after. You are so happy. So happy.
One day you will come home to the life that you built and you will feel uneasy. Something is out of place, but he will never tell you what. He didn’t stop smoking even though you told him eight dollars a day is too much, since you both have other habits. He says he is sorry. You believe him. The world turns again. You are still happy.
He sleeps with his phone under his pillow, and he loves you. He doesn’t share his past, but yours will be an open book that he gets to edit with as much red ink as he deems fit.
You are his and he is his.
You are his, and he is his.
Do you get it?
I wish I could tell you that I am happy for you. I wish I could tell you that you are a free thinker and you get to pick who you want to love and nothing else matters because you are strong, fearless, and powerful. I wish I could tell you all of these things, but somehow, he took a piece of my voice when he left, and shoved it into your chest. Do you get it? One day, you will understand. One day, after it is far too late. You might as well sit back and enjoy the show.
You are not yours anymore. You have no idea what happened to you, but something inside of you is too tired to find out. When you look in the mirror, now, instead of him watching you, he will be inside of you. He is in your head because he knows you best. He is holding your heart in between his palms and he will keep it prisoner for as long as he sees necessary. He is holding the strings, little puppet girl. You are so happy.
Dear Pretty Girl,
I’m sorry for your loss.