Dear You

Dear Me, I am sorry. Sorry, I diminished you. I honestly didn’t know what you wanted, but I surely knew what you did not want, raw callous touches. Touches that has no warmth, not now, not further.

I let him touch you, grab you, kiss you, and insert himself in you. There was no love, his skin was hard, and eyes was grey, barring any love. I knew it was excruciating, those thumps were. It was demanding, cold, detached and thus aching. That cupping of your chests, those hard bites which usually you love didn’t seem passionate at all. He somehow sucked the love out of you, my dear. I let him coddle you like he wants and now how you liked. I let him sunk his teeth and claw his nails into you, mistaking it as passion of love. His smile, which I thought was the joy of loving me was nothing but one of the conquered war. He whispered sweet nothings in my ears and like a fool, I embraced him as my savior.

I thought this is it. This is what I want, this is what it means to see a castle in your dream. You loved the fairy tales, I instead wrapped in you the cold blanket of meaningless shivers and spikes. He slid one sun-kissed smile at you and I would make him your prince. Over and over and over. You thought you can change his grayness into red, you tried your best to make out of nothing. You tried, you cried, again and again. You screamed, I let it go into the hollow deafness, mistaking it as screams of pleasure.

I get it. I get it, now. I couldn’t differentiate between warmth and a blanket of cold pretending to be the warmth in my life. Oh! Things he has done to poor you. I am sorry. All I can say is sorry. I can’t take back the scars, I can’t take back the dark hollow dreams, but I can keep them from deepening further. Because, now I know, what it is to not be loved, if not what it is to be loved.