#mc;task2.

I’d like to think that I have some sense of self-restraint when it comes to you; which is precisely why I’m keeping this letter tucked between the pages of Oscar Wilde and out of sight once I finish writing it, just to resist the urge of sending it when I know it’ll likely end up making me look like even more of a knob head in the long run. But-- maybe that’s not self-restraint at all, is it? Maybe it’s weakness. Because I know reading this letter would evoke some sort of response from you, and well-- fuck. That’s scary, innit? Keeping things tucked away for years-- even from you, you who knows literally every double-edged sword of a secret that I’ve collected and kept quiet for however long-- only to make myself vulnerable for you all over again, in a much more terrifying way than just slivers of skin and whispers of fear. This feels a lot bigger than that -- a lot more loaded. And my chest hurts from it, almost. 

I love you.

It’s almost scary how easy that was to write just now, given my deep-seeded refusal to mumble it aloud at any point up until now. But the funny thing is ( funny or sad, depending on how you choose to look at it, I suppose ), this isn’t the first time I’ve written those three particular words down. The margins of my secondary school notebooks are all littered with scribbles of the same fucking three-word cliche, written in place of notes and reminders, and taking up all of the blank space in between scribbled swirls of your name and-- fuck that’s pathetic, innit? Probably about as pathetically cliche as when I first took a pen and scratched the sentiment out; right after our first time together -- when I’d strip myself bare for you in more ways than one. And I was shaking-- fuck, I was shaking from the vulnerability of it all. And you just...you held me; whispered words of reassurance in my ear, and never once lessened your grip on my hand. I remember feeling those words clawing away at my chest long after you’d fallen asleep, leaving me to my own thoughts. They were caught in my throat, a knot slowly forming around each and every syllable as I tried desperately to swallow it back. The urge to blurt the phrase out didn’t settle until I’d located a pen, scribbling out the words against the palm of my hand in a haste, breathing slowing down to a steady rhythm soon after. 

I woke up the next morning with ink smeared into my skin, and my heart more full than I’d felt it been in a while. But, as you’re probably well aware, I never repeated those words to you. I bit it back down for another full year, and then I left. I was stupid and scared and I left. And I know you’ve forgiven me for all of this shit-- but I still don’t think I’ve quite forgiven myself; not when your trust is no longer something I’m privileged to keep, not when it’s something I’ll likely never be able to obtain from you again.

And you wanna know what the most fucked up thing about me writing this is? I don’t know if I’ll ever end up saying any of this to you-- dunno if you’d even believe me if I did. But this-- this is something, innit? Because I’m not just-- I’m not just doodling down silly phrases that I hardly know the meaning of. I’m accepting it. I’m accepting the fact that I’m in love with you, even now, and that I’ve fucked it all up. Still trying not to hope for too much, though-- m’just tiptoeing all along the edges of whatever it is we’ve managed to establish at this point, and trying not to hold out for more. I still want it, though. Fuck-- I want all of it, even. And holy shit is that terrifying.

This isn’t supposed to be accusatory. This was never supposed to be accusatory. The thing is, I think in some sick, fucked-up, shitty sort of way, you’ve actually done the best that you could for us. It’s pretty messed up when I don’t even look at you as someone worth betting on, like you’ve already played your part in my life, and while it was insurmountable, it’s spent. Done with. 

I don’t hate you. It would be easier if I did. None of us hate you. Marcie even loves you, I think, but she’s too young to understand what you’ve done, and what you’re still doing. It’s going to be a rude fuckin’ awakening when she grows up, isn’t it? That’s probably the worst part of it for me. Having to watch them grow, watch them slowly begin to realise that you’re just as awful as Jacob and I have always treated you (you deserve worse) and not being able to do a damn thing to soften the blow. 

Why can’t you just soften the blow? Leave like he did. Leave us, because we’re better off with you gone than you here. 

You’re a drunk. I’ve told you that before, in bouts of rage post finding Lila pillowing your head after waking up from a nightmare to find you passed out in your own vomit on the living room floor. Screaming at you never really got me anything aside from a split lip, but I’d do it again and again if it meant having even the slightest chance of getting through to you. It’s fucking hilarious how optimistic I was back then, isn’t it? ‘Cause even with all signs pointing to shit, I thought you could still be diamonds. Now I see you for what you are, and there’s no changing that no matter how many times you pretend to get clean, how many programs you go through, or A.A. meetings you attend. 

Like I said, this isn’t supposed to be accusatory. 

My life is good with you only one the weekends. I’m doing excellent, and you’ve had no hand in that. You’ve had no hand in my success. Jacob pushed me to come here, he pushed me to be where I am now, with your had habit between my lips, writing you this letter from the one place that has ever felt like it’s mine. Actually, I recall one time over the summer when you told me not to go, and yet here I am now. Here I am, free of you, perpetually burdened with the things you’ve done, but knowing full fucking well that you will never, ever be able to do them to me again.

You’re not sorry, I know that you aren’t -- I don’t care. I forgive you. Not for them, but for me. I forgive you for fucking me up. I forgive you for every time I’ve had to smell your acrid breath on my face when you came home looking for another fix, but you were never really there. I forgive you for my seven-year-old self crying for you and you never being there. I forgive you for going to school in dirty clothes, for no lunch money and no lunch, and I forgive you for the endless stream of men coursing through our home until it didn’t even cause hesitance to come downstairs to an unfamiliar face and new stains on the sofa. 

I forgive you for what you’ve done to me, because as it turns out, I can kind of understand that shit is your best. 

But I don’t forgive you for what you’ve done to them. And I never will.