Open Letter

I know what you’re thinking,

Oh shit, not this girl again...here we go,

metaphors, yelling, all the same old act about the same old thing,

and you know I’d love to stop writing about break ups and rape and the damn patriarchy

if the “same old shit” didn't keep happening.

This is an open letter to the boy who broke my heart,

the one who stole my innocence,

the one who played me,

and the one who took me for granted.

This is an open letter to all of you out there who don’t understand the difference between fuck and make love.

This is an open letter to the boys who made me feel like I should put my heart on the sidelines.

So my brain is in the locker room for a twisted word, broken breath, and sprained smile.

My tits fill in for Antonio Brown,

My ass for JJ Watt,

My mouth for Tom Brady.

My body is starting the game, the crowd is silent, and all you can hear is the subtle cheer “Just do it.”

Well you know what? I’m tired of letting you ruin my football game. Denver beats the patriots and I should be screaming at the top of my lungs but all I feel are the tears sewn to my cheekbones when you respond to last night’s good time with a bullshit excuse.

Because for so damn long I thought the only way to make you love me was by deepthroating.

That the only way to make you smile was to unhook my bra because you took way too long to do it yourself.

Oh, shit. Maybe that hurt your feelings. So I guess this is the point where I say I’m sorry.

And then I say I’m sorry again because last time I checked an apology didn’t mean a blowjob.

But you, sweet darling, don’t understand that the best damn thing that can come through my mouth is words, the sound of my voice which is blooming with flowers from the seeds you sewed last time you used your tongue to wipe away my tears.

So, yeah. I am sorry.

I’m sorry you couldn’t appreciate me.

But It’s not my fault your hormones have replaced your heart.

That you don’t know what the word “love” means unless you’re talking about that thing she does with her tongue and the way she moves her hips.

It’s not my fault that you’re tired of feeling because some other girls screwed you over just like you’re screwing me over now.

That you are so wound up in your own self and trying to be the perfect guy to realize you have a whole lot of fixing to do on your own ‘87 run down model.

And it’s not my fault that despite being the best damn thing that ever happened to you, you couldn’t put your anger or ego aside for long enough to actually mean “I love you.”

That reality wasn’t fun and being sober wasn’t worth it.

No, you didn’t rock my world.

No, you didn’t change my life.

No, you weren’t my sole source of happiness.

Now I know that I am my own happiness.

That your love means little to nothing as long as I can love my own damn self.

That for all those times I thought you were the reason the sun was shining, I was too blind to see that that sun rose for me.

So, to all the boys who thought I was drunk enough to be another one night stand, I’m sorry. Wrong girl.

To those of you who thought I just couldn’t make you happy enough, I’m sorry. I sure make myself pretty damn happy.

To all of you who thought that going on a date or me going in your room meant I was dying to have sex with you, I’m sorry. But you clearly need to work on your communication skills.

We thank these hallowed nights for their blankets and pillows, their midnight movies, but we never thanked the stars for your tired, bitter slurs, you're drunk slaps across the face, your hands holding mine down and not looking at the terror in my eyes.

You had me convinced my screams were whispers,

that my flailing was embracing.

You see, It wasn’t that I was saying “No” too quietly,

it’s that you just didn’t want to listen.

You never thought to ask a question or listen to the unasked answer.

The saddest part is you were raised by a woman made of violets and lilies, so please,

imagine her eyes being glued to the bed frame when you slammed the mattress because I didn’t want you to touch me,

your roses blew away when I refused to blow you

so your thorns pierce the word “no.”

My pathological fears are melting into your pillowcase as I cry myself to sleep because you couldn’t formulate any words except for “damn it” when I tried to tell you that you didn’t have a warrant to my body

I tried to say you don’t get to search and seizure my creases, my nooks, my edges,

and your lips spit poison onto my rope ladder, foaming up and dissolving so I fall back down to the bottom of the well,

bottom of the foodchain,

bottom under you.

And yeah, I may just be another girl.

And you may think I’m just a stereotype or body but my letters help to define who I am and that isn’t some simple sorority girl who lives for beer breath on her neck as you screw upstairs in the bedroom that’s been christened by the tears and blacked out thank-god-she-can’t-remember memories of far too many girls.

The thing that all of you have in common is that once you get the gun you can’t help but pull the trigger.

Slow down,

take a second to learn what pedals you could burn,

to feel the strength of the grip against your calloused hands that have the potential to smooth themselves out,

to imagine the barrel was your future AK-47 wrapped in a pink blanket baring your name.

But, no. No you don’t have the patience to be ready, you’re too full with anticipation to get what you want.

Too full of stems and leafs to ask what I want.

Well, I don’t want you.

I want the courtesy of consent, my basic human right.

I want to be loved truly and unconditionally.

I want to bloom and grow into those damn cream colored roses that none of you ever bought me.

I want to be happy.

And the best way for me to do that is to stay the hell away from all of you.

Love,

The girl you let get away,

the girl you raped,

the girl you took for granted,

and the girl who’s a hell of a lot better without you.