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.