Your presence continues to exist with me, in the form of intrusive, painful, thoughts. These days, I'd rather not be thinking about you, and yet there you are. I still hear your voice, I still hear your laugh, and sometimes, I still hear you cum. I blush when that happens, and inevitably get wet.

I was lying in bed just now. Trying to make myself orgasm. You materialized within my mind so clearly, I could still feel your cock pushing up against me. Embarrassingly, I sometimes cum to you. I hate myself for it.

There were so many moments where you made me whimper and cry and take it in order to be your good girl. Those are the moments I love because they were an expression of utmost trust between you and I. And those are the moments I allow myself to feel once more. Because these early snapshots of our relationship were consensual, rare and beautiful.

We spent so much time together. At work and at home, both my apartment and your house. Your house, that for a brief moment, became my home too. I used to berate myself over the fact that you still exist within me, but I no longer do so; for I recognize that the amount of time we spent together, of course you'd be difficult to erase.

Sometimes I still long for you. It makes me feel so angry, that I still feel like this, because I know now that you simply abused me. You used me because I accepted you for who you were and you took that as a sign of weakness.

Every flaw, fear and insecurity that you whispered to me in front of the fire, I took and stilled. What did you once tell me? I'm the first person to give you permission to feel. Your words, E, not mine.

I was your secret-keeper and I'm actually sure I still am. For the secrets you told me, would dissolve that fragile paper-mache you call a life. For the secrets you told me, you could never share with her. The one you told me you broke up with, remember, E?

One day, you told me you knew exactly what I want out of a relationship.

“What?” I replied, my anxiety quelling at the idea that you had decided to be with me.

“Reassurance that you are loved,” you replied.

I hated your answer, but all I responded with was, “And I know exactly what you want.

Domesticity.”

You were standing away from me as I sat at your dining room table. You paused. I couldn’t tell what your thoughts were, your face remained even.

“That’s exactly it,” you responded. I smiled big, because I thought I had figured a small part of you out.

In retrospect, and retrospect is all I have left, both of your answers in that conversation were a lie.

I needed reassurance only with you; because you lied, you manipulated and you destroyed the beauty between us. The derealization, the doubt, the fear of loss, had never existed before you, and neither will it exist after you.

There is nothing like being called the crazy girl, and witnessing the fracture of my own reality.

What’s hurts the most is the retrospective; I recognize that every word out of your mouth was meant to draw me in. Not because you cared, but because you saw an opportunity.

An opportunity in my body and in my mind. A weak spot, a spot that would bend and amend, to let you in.

What hurts the most, is recognizing that I never had a future with you, as, you created this artificial world for me. I served as a means to your own end.

You dug deep to get here; and again in retrospect, perhaps the digging wasn’t that hard, because I tend to be an open book.

What hurts the most, is the fact that I miss you; a you that never actually existed. I mourn the existence of my own projections onto a malignancy, a pathology, a tumor. A empty visage of moral standing.

You fought to become a part of me. I still don’t know why. Because then, you scraped me alive from the inside out. Every bite, bloody and painful, a simultaneous reminder of my own humanity and your own sociopathy.

You exist past the norms of humanhood. You are rotten from the inside, polished on the out. You strive for perfection because it serves as a cover for your own insecurities, dark, disintegrating, and a threat to others. You are a sickness, who’s relief arrives only in the form of a hood and scythe.

I saw death many times over with you. In bed especially, with your elbow around my neck. Words I’ll never forget, “Stop moving you bitch, or I’ll fuck you in the ass until you bleed.”

I heard death in the quality of your voice. As you reminded me of where to hide a body. Of how you’d kill me, with detailed, specific plans. How did you know the lounge lacked key card access? I never showed you the lounge.

This strain, this vein, this slight marbling in your personality. This is it; the sickness, the rot, the tumor, your own personal genetic defect. You are a sociopath. And by definition, you lack the personal insight. You will never get better.

We talked about heaven and hell. God, religion, church. We agreed, it might not exist as a tangible, touchable reality. Surprisingly, a point I can still see eye to eye on with you.

I don’t believe in karma. I don’t believe in heaven or in hell. There is no after life, no prior life. No deeper meaning to my existence except for the right here, right now. There will be no set punishment for you, because that's not how the world works. Nothing bad will happen to you, except the bad that you create for yourself.

You robbed us of the beauty that existed between you and I. You couldn’t resist but to take more than was ever rightfully yours, not just the love I gave you, but the love I have within myself.

I want to write that you were a selfish lover from the beginning, but that would be untrue. The beginning was magical. The beginning showed me what love should feel like. It made me ache because I realized I had never truly felt loved prior to us existing.

You were attentive. The smallest comment I made, you heard and amplified and acted on. Any desire I had, you were there, not only ready, but eager, to fulfill it. “I would do anything for you right now, anything,” you whispered, kneeling in front me, my thighs tied open, my pussy yours. Your words were enough to make me cum right then.

As I look back at the arc of our relationship, I realize that you lied. There is no other explanation. It was easier to get what you want, by telling me what I desperately wanted to hear.

As you said, I was simply, “a way to explore [your] own sexuality.” The words reverberate within me because it strips our love down to nothing. It ceases to exist, not even a void, but a lack thereof.

My heart still aches, but it’s not a love-lost twinge. What’s left is anger and betrayal and bitterness. You robbed us of the beauty that we created, a shining diamond I held safe, close to my heart and yours.

You robbed me of more than just our relationship. You robbed me of my good, my ability to see the good in others, to feel the love from others.

You showed me the worst of humanity. You showed me the cruelty, the selfishness, the absolute narcissism, and the two-faced devil that lives within you. I struggle when I compare Sir, to the monster I encountered at the end of a year with you.

Did you ever love me? I don’t know. You said the words. You wrote the words. You acted the words. But could someone that loves me also abuse me? Also scare me? Also threaten to kill me?

There is no justice for women in this world.

And as long as the world believes your lie, you’re ok to live it, E. For the image you present as an upstanding citizen, is just that; a holograph, an empty visage of moral standing.

When I think about the lies you’ve told to cover your own tracks, my insides start to rot. I see you for the coward you truly are, and I regret sucking your dick out of love.

It’s a painful, tense feeling, and it overwhelms my sense of self. I tremble from anger, tears spring to my eyes, my chest closes in on me.

I can’t breathe. Reminiscent of the time you squeezed my life away, your arms a tourniquet around my chest, my ribs cracking, my breath too short to scream for help.

I can't breathe, tears are wetting my face. For, I fail to understand the polarization of our relationship. How could I have spent 12 months kneeled at your feet, Little One to your Sir, to only to be told you’d rather have me dead?

I get angry at the system designed to protect you. I get angry at her, for lying on your behalf, to the police, to the judge, to the people we work with. I get angry at the fact that you use women to protect yourself, when truly you are an abuser of the gentler sex.

I get angry that she protects you, when you so easily betrayed her. Not only to me, but to the rest of the world as well.

I get angry at the judge, for having the nerve to tell me that, in fact, it was not domestic violence but rather, you protecting your own property. I get angry because I exist in a world where my personhood is considered less worthy than property. I get angry because, there was no one to protect me.

There is no justice for women in this world.

There are days I give you no thought. There are moments which turn into hours, which occasionally still run the length of a day, where I am trapped in this anger, and my mind still belongs to you.

It is pure, fucking, agony, because there is no solution, there is no outlet, there is no closure. For you will always be a coward, as only a coward hits a woman without consent. Only a coward doesn’t realize when an apology is owed.

You mean the absolute world to me. I can’t even describe it. After my last breakup, I felt like nobody would ever love me. I’m nothing spectacular. But you never fail to tell me how much I mean to you.

I don’t even know how it happened, but God placed you in my life at the perfect time. 

You may not be perfect, but I am absolutely sure that you are perfect for me. I’ve never felt more complete than I do when I’m with you. Even just driving to and from Dairy Queen this evening (with my brand new license) was magical. You make me smile my goofy smile where my eyes get squinty and my nose scrunches up and my top lip curls up. You make me laugh until I snort and you still love me even when I turn into a pig.

I love you, E. Don’t ever forget it.

Yours always.