This letter is the hardest to write. The words are the most painful. Each press of the keys is a wound. Remind me to breathe because I can’t stop holding my breath. This is the letter where I tell you to run.
I’m not what you want. I know that. We both know that. You’re looking for something very specific and I have only a faded-in-the-sun likeness to it. If you squint you see what you want. I don’t want you to squint, your eyes are much too beautiful when they’re fully open. Run.
I’ve pretended. I’ve done a damn good job sometimes too. I think I might have even convinced you the person you want is just under my surface. The only thing that’s there, though, is a deep need to make you happy and I would be whoever you wanted me to just to make you smile.
So run. This is over and we’re through and the sickness in me has tried to reach out. It has no emotions or thought, just memories of you. If a being could only remember memories of a person and they all made that being feel the way you made me then you could only expect it to never want to leave you. But you need to leave me because we’re never going to be good for each other. Despite this I won’t ever be able to resist you, so this is all on you. I’m sorry.