To: F.L.

You took from me something so rich, so divine. 
Innocence. Naivety. Unadulterated bliss. 
Safety. Assurance. Trust. 
I plunge, wondering if this will be it. If this will be the moment I feel something worse that what you made me feel. 
If this will be the moment I awake from the perpetual nightmare, running on a vicious loop. 
The moment I'll be free of when remembering was just too much. 

Forget? Living an eternal purgatory. Never able to shake the nausea your name evokes. How could I forget?

I want to know what it feels like to not want to shed my skin for a thousand years before I feel rid of you. I want to know what it feels like to own every step that I take. I want to know what it feels like to shake the ground with a confidence this world has yet to embrace. 

Instead, I yield. I curl my body so tight that I'm but a ball. A ball of insecurities. A ball of lose skin, measured by the amount of rolls that appear when I sit. A ball of veins filled with tequila laced blood, one shot too many. 

Forgive? It's your God that wishes I could, not me. Spit the ground, you're but scum on a rat's ass. But even God loved the foulest of the foul. I'll admit, I tried. I tried to see it his way. Or hers. I tried to understand. Not even the divine itself could convince me otherwise. 

I hate you. And I'm not even guilty for saying it. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. 

I choose to love myself instead. I choose to forgive myself instead. I choose to restore myself instead. 

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